


Pour Me Another

by Shippershape



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender Bellamy, Doctor Clarke, F/M, Mentions of Minty, Mentions of Wicken, Slow Burn, lowkey princess mechanic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 18:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6020770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shippershape/pseuds/Shippershape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Isn’t your job to get me drunk, not to sober me up?”</p><p>“My job is to take care of customers,” he replies dryly. “Besides, I’m legally responsible for making sure you don’t get wasted here and go wreak havoc in the streets.”</p><p>--</p><p>Clarke has a bad day, and tells her bartender all about it. She assumes she'll never have to see him again, but you know what they say about assumptions. </p><p>Some of the tags refer to later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my bread and butter. Leave one if you like it.

So maybe her day doesn’t go _exactly_ as she had planned.

.-.-.-.-.-.

“This isn’t-it’s not-”

“What I think?” Clarke asks, wondering how her mouth is forming words, how her brain is stringing coherent thoughts together. All the rest of her can do is stare, stare at his hands, still on the brunette’s hips, the bead of sweat on his back where the sheets have slithered down, the wide-eyed confusion of the girl Clarke’s boyfriend is _still_ laying on top of.

“I-” He begins to say something else, not bothering to climb off of the girl he’s currently mounting. It’s enough.

It’s just-

“ _Enough_.” She holds up a hand, turning on her heel, sights set on the door. An exit. Out.

She can hear his voice behind her as she leaves, and _hers_ , but it doesn’t matter. A brick wall couldn’t have stopped her from getting the hell out of there.

She feels nauseous, and she thinks that probably can’t be helped, but Clarke finds herself at a bar anyways, a few blocks down. She sits down on a stool before turning to blink dazedly at the man on the other side of the counter, and the bartender barely gives her a once over before sliding her a shot.

“This one’s on me.” He says, and Clarke knows it’s tequila, can smell it already, and she fucking _hates_ tequila.

She downs it, placing the shot glass face down on the bar top like Jasper taught her in college. It was heavy and satisfying in her hand, the liquor burning a path down her throat.

“I hate tequila.”

He slides her another. This one smells different, whiskey, if she had to guess.

“What’s the balloon for?”

He’d had the optimism to pour this round into a lowball glass, so she doesn’t flip it upside down to match the other after she’s drained it, just slides it back toward him. Then his words register, and her eyes drift toward the string in her hand, following it up until she’s staring at the red balloon, floating aimlessly among the wine glasses hanging from the ceiling. Her stomach turns.

“Do you have a pen?” She asks, and he produces one from under the counter, refilling her glass when she takes it from him. He’s looking down, bottle in hand, when she pops the balloon.

“ _Shit_ , lady!” He barks, spilling Jameson on the bar, and himself. Realizing what she’s done, Clarke stares at the wet sheen on his hand, eyes wide.

“God.” She says, blinking. “I-I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for that. I think I’ve just-”

“Lost your damn mind?” he mutters, swiping at the mess with a rag. For the first time, Clarke realizes that he’s actually quite attractive. Dark hair curls around his face, falling in front of intense brown eyes. His tanned face is dusted with a healthy cropping of freckles, and his flannel sleeves are rolled up to reveal a pair of distractingly well-muscled forearms.

“Yeah,” murmurs Clarke. “I think, maybe. Temporarily.”

At that, he looks up, the irritation on his face mixing with amusement.

“People who’ve lost their minds don’t usually _know_ they’ve lost their minds.” Sexy Bartender says generously, and Clarke is momentarily distracted by the timbre of his voice. Then she frowns.

“I _have_ heard that before, but I’m not sure it’s totally true. I just forgot I had the balloon.”

They both glance at what’s left of it, the words _Happy Birthday_ distorted after being stretched and then deflated. When he reaches toward her, she recoils, but he just picks a piece of balloon out of her hair, a shred of red rubber with a wrinkled crown stamped on top.

“So, Princess, bad birthday?” He wonders. Clarke considers asking him not to call her that, since it’s a nickname Finn used to use for her as well, but she kind of likes the way it sounds on his tongue.

“Yes.” She waits for him to slide her another drink, but he doesn’t. “Not mine, though.”

“Alright.” That earns her a nod, and another drink. “So what did the balloon do to you?” His voice lowers a little as he leans in, arms resting on the bar. Clarke sips delicately at the whiskey this time, although she’s already decided she won’t be going back to work. It’s just after four, but her rotation was over an hour ago, and she’s not technically on call, though that rarely stops her interns from paging her at all hours of the day. Besides, she really needs to get drunk.

“Nothing.” She declares, feeling a fleeting pang of guilt for the innocent balloon. “Aside from bearing witness to something neither of us should have had to see.”

When she looks up from her glass, the bartender is frowning intensely down at her, and the alcohol hits her like a freight train. Suddenly woozy, she blinks, trying to bring his pretty face back into focus.

“Ah.” He nods sagely. “Birthday boy, maybe girl, birthday sex, but not with you?”

He almost sounds smug at having guessed it, Clarke thinks. But maybe she’s just projecting.

“I don’t like you.” She informs him, the liquor loosening her tongue. In fact, it’s a blatant lie, Clarke is beginning to feel warm just looking at him, but she does find him a little arrogant, and her irritation with him fits more easily alongside the anger churning in her stomach.

“What?” He looks genuinely surprised. “Why? I’m not the one who cheated on you.”

“I bet you would.” Clarke mumbles, draining her glass once again. “You’re attractive, and smooth, and you could, so you would. You’d ask me to move in with you, and then I’d walk in on you fucking someone else and you would have the _balls_ to tell me ‘it’s not what it looks like’ while you were still inside her.”

For a moment, his eyes go wide, lips parting in surprise. Then this actually seems to offend him, a crease forming between his eyebrows, his mouth settling into a thin line.

“I would not. And your boyfriend sounds like a real asshole.”

“Ex.” Clarke says, and she thinks maybe that should make her feel something but it doesn’t. She tries again. “Ex-boyfriend.” Nothing.

“That’s probably a good call.” He pours her another, but it’s noticeably smaller than the others. She just stares at it, the image of Finn and the brunette playing over in her mind like some kind of twisted porno.

“What’s your name?” She doesn’t mean to ask, but she zones out a little, staring at his freckles. The words just come out.

“Bellamy.”

It’s a pretty name, she thinks, but men don’t typically like to hear that.

“Why do people cheat, Bellamy?”

“Lots of reasons.” He runs the rag from earlier over a bottle of something red. “Insecurity, narcissism, immaturity. Some people are just selfish.” Setting the red bottle down, he picks up another, resumes wiping. Clarke glances around the bar, wondering if he has other customers. She doesn’t see anyone else.

“Well,” she sighs. “Any of those could apply to Finn.”

Bellamy’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Sounds like a catch. Why were you dating him in the first place?”

Clarke narrows her eyes at him. She considers that, swirling the liquid in her glass as she thinks.

“He made me laugh,” she finally says. “when I hadn’t laughed in a very long time.” Something about the way she says it makes Bellamy pause, his eyes scanning her a little more closely than before.

“So,” he begins, then tilts his head toward her expectantly. She’s confused for a moment.

“Oh. Clarke. My name is Clarke.”

“So, Clarke. What are you going to do now?” He asks.

She’s a little drunk, and hasn’t really gotten that far.

“I could kill him,” she proposes, but the truth is she’s not entirely sure she cares enough about Finn to really want it. Bellamy grins.

“You could. Is there a plan B? Just in case murder turns out to be more trouble than it’s worth?”

“There’s not that much to do,” she declares, after thinking about it for another moment. “I’m going to stay here for a while, and be drunk. And then I’m going to go home and tell my landlord that I won’t be giving up my lease after all. And since today is a Tuesday, I’m going to wake up tomorrow, disgustingly hungover, and go to work.”

Bellamy’s answering smile is impressed, almost a little proud.

“That sounds like a decent plan. And the birthday boy?”

Clarke snorts.

“If he’s smart he’ll stay the fuck away from me.” She pauses. “Which probably means I’ll be seeing him soon.” It shouldn’t feel so deliciously good to bash Finn like this, but it does. And Clarke is far too angry to care. Then she sighs. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was waiting on my doorstep when I get home.”

His smile clouds over a little.

“Clingy?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Hmm, let’s see. He took me to dinner with his parents for our third date. He’s been trying to get me to move in with him since the first time we had sex, which, by the way, was like three weeks after we met. Oh, and he goes through my phone sometimes, because he ‘doesn’t trust the guys I work with’. Which is obviously ironic, considering.”

Realizing her glass is empty again, she pushes it toward him. He drops a bowl of peanuts in front of her, and a glass of water.

“I hate to be insensitive-”

Clarke chokes on her water at that, and she’s not entirely sure why that’s so funny, other than that Bellamy doesn’t actually seem to care about being insensitive at all, but he just sighs and otherwise ignores her.

“-but it sounds like you’re better off. If anything, you should be celebrating.”

She raises her glass of water, forcing a smile that comes out more like a drunken leer.

“I am celebrating, can’t you tell?”

Bellamy just frowns at her, arms crossed over his chest.

“Uh huh. You want a sandwich or something?”

Clarke thinks she catches something other than judgment in his tone, but in her current state she can’t put her finger on it.

“I’m fine, _dad,”_ she grumbles. “Isn’t your job to get me drunk, not to sober me up?”

“My _job_ is to take care of customers,” he replies dryly. “Besides, I’m legally responsible for making sure you don’t get wasted here and go wreak havoc in the streets.”

“Mhmm.” The water is gone, and the salt in the peanuts is beginning to make her thirsty. Holding her glass out, she eyes Bellamy thoughtfully. “What kind of havoc, exactly?”

He pulls out the fountain hose, filling her empty glass with water, and shrugs.

“Well, back in the Roman Empire, adultery was punishable by law. So you could go find this Flint guy-”

“Finn.”

“Right, sorry, _Finn_. And you could seize half of his property and banish him to an island.”

Clarke stares.

“I don’t really want his property. And we’re already on an island,” she points out, thinking of Manhattan. Bellamy purses his lips. “I could banish him to Jersey, but honestly, I don’t think my authority would hold.”

His answering smile is bright, but quick, and it’s gone before Clarke can fully appreciate it.

“You sure you don’t want a sandwich?”

She shakes her head.

“Another drink would be good, though.”

He relents with a sigh, setting another Jameson in front of her.

“So, you’re a history nerd,” she deduces, less wary of offending him now that he’s given her what she wants. One dark eyebrow disappears into his mop of black hair, the corner of his lips twitching.

“I’m a fourth year PhD candidate at Cornell. Ancient History with a specialization in Greco-Roman law, actually. And I prefer history _buff_.”

She eyes the way his biceps fill out his plaid flannel shirt.

“I bet you do.”

He does it again, that flash of a smile that disappears as quickly as it came.

“And you, Clarke? What do you do?”

“Aside from day-drinking, you mean?” She’s about to answer, but for the first time, she realizes that the constant buzzing she’s been hearing for the past hour is coming from her purse. Reaching into it, Clarke pulls out her phone, huffing loudly when she sees the call display. Finn. As she hits ignore, the screen pops into her call logs.

“Everything okay?”

Clarke blinks, having forgotten Bellamy was there. She holds up her phone, so that he can see the display, and he whistles.

“Twenty-eight missed calls? Who is this guy, John Hinckley Jr.?”

Clarke just taps her glass on the bar. This time, Bellamy refills it without so much as a word.

Four hours later, and Clarke is no longer the only one at the bar.

Sometime after five, people started to drift in, the post-work crowd. As the seats around her filled up, Clarke half expected Bellamy to kick her out, but he doesn’t. And when the second bartender, Sterling arrived, Bellamy assigned him to the other side of the bar. She might be drunk, deliciously so, but she can tell from the look Sterling gave him that their sections are usually switched.

He still hasn’t gotten her to order food off the menu, so he just keeps replacing the peanuts in front of her. Somewhere in her alcohol fueled haze, Clarke recognizes that he’s taking care of her.

When it’s been longer than usual since she’s gotten a refill, Clarke glances up at the clock. It’s almost eight-thirty.

“Shit,” she mumbles, digging through her purse. She pulls out a wad of cash, failing miserably to calculate the tab in her head. Sighing, she tosses a hundred onto the bar, and then for good measure, adds a fifty. When she hops off the stool her head spins unpleasantly.

She was supposed to meet Monty for dinner an hour ago. A quick glance at her phone reveals half a dozen calls and texts from him, peppered in amongst the barrage of missed calls from Finn. She’s almost out the door when she feels a hand on her arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Blinking, Clarke looks up to see Bellamy standing over her. He’s taller than she realized.

“I’m supposed to be at dinner,” she tells him. He frowns at her, bemused. The he turns back to the bar.

“Murphy!” He yells at a passing busboy, the one who’s been doubling as a barback. “I need to run an errand. Fill in for me and all my tips are yours.”

The busboy gives him a greasy smile, and a half salute, and then Bellamy looks back down at Clarke.

“Don’t go anywhere. I’m serious. I’ll be right back.” His tone is stern, and she finds herself nodding, even though she knows Monty is probably worried. He disappears down a hallway she didn’t notice before, and Clarke jabs at her phone.

He answers on the first ring.

“Clarke? Where are you? I couldn’t get a hold of you so I called Finn, and he told me what happened, and that guy’s a jerk, Clarke, but I was worried you’d done something really stupid, and-”

“I’m fine.” She winces at the audible slur in her words. “I didn’t do anything stupid. Or just, like, the regular amount of stupid. I got drunk, at this bar, I’ve been here since four. I’m sorry, I forgot about dinner.”

 “No, that’s-” Clarke can hear the relief in his voice, along with the concern. “where are you? Do you need a ride? I’ll come get you.”

With a start, she realizes she doesn’t even know the name of the bar. Just then, Bellamy re-emerges, a leather jacket thrown on over his flannel, and a set of keys in his hand.

“Hey.” Clarke tries not to stare, but he was hot when she first got here, and a mickey later she finds him almost painfully attractive. “What’s this place called?”

He stares at the phone in her hand, eyes dark.

“Is that him?”

“What? No. It’s Monty,” she tells him.

“Monty.” He repeats, like he’s waiting for something. After a moment, she remembers that she met Bellamy a few hours ago. Bellamy does not know Monty.

“Monty is my friend,” explains Clarke, and when he continues to just look at her, she sighs. “He’s going to come get me. But I don’t know what the name of this bar is.”

“Clarke?” Monty’s voice crackles over the line. “Who are you talking to?”

“The bartender,” she mutters, then turning back to Bellamy, “where are we?”

He rolls his eyes.

“It’s fine, Princess. I can drive you home.”

She looks up at him in shock.

“Why? I paid my tab.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says puzzled. “You dramatically overpaid, by the way,” he tells her, holding up the money she’d left on the bar.

“I don’t know you,” Clarke replies suspiciously. “What if you’re a serial killer?”

Monty’s voice drifts out of the phone again.

“What’s going on?”

It’s too much for her drunk brain to handle, in the moment, Monty’s voice in her ear, and Bellamy’s eyes on her while he jingles his keys against his leg.

“It’s fine. Bellamy’s going to take me home.”

“Who’s-”

Clarke hangs up. Bellamy raises his eyebrows.

“What if I’m a serial killer?”

She sighs.

“Then I won’t have to worry about being hungover tomorrow.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re the bartender, you get to hear everyone’s life stories. What’s yours?”
> 
> “I’m a History major who works in a bar.” He shrugs. “And on occasion, I drive drunk blondes around the city so that my boss won’t lose his liquor license.”
> 
> Clarke rolls her eyes, even though she knows he can’t see it in the dark.
> 
> “That’s not a story. That’s the press release they put on the book jacket.”

His car, it turns out, is a truck. It’s old, probably 89’, but it’s in impeccable condition.

It isn’t until he looks over at her that Clarke realizes she said it out loud.

“87’ actually.” It starts up with only a dull roar, “Where are we going?”

“Union Square. East 20th and Broadway.”

He glances over at the name, and Clarke folds her arms across her chest defensively. People are weird about money in New York.

“So, you like cars?” he asks, turning his eyes back to the road.

 “Not really. My dad was an engineer, and he decided he wanted to learn how to build the stuff he designed, so he got really into…um…” she pushes against the fog of whiskey in her brain, but it pushes back.

“Mechanics?”

“Yeah. Mechanics. When I was a kid. We worked on some of it together. Cars, old junk planes, stuff like that.” She feels the familiar pang of sadness that comes with talking about him, but it’s dulled by the alcohol.

“That’s cool,” he says. She hums her agreement.

“So, what do you know about drawing and quartering?” she wonders, and he snorts.

“More than I want to. There are probably easier ways to deal with Birthday Boy, though. Ones that don’t involve you having to get your hands on a bunch of horses.” His eyes drift toward her again, and the silence in the car is punctuated by the buzzing of her phone. “What’s the running total?”

Clarke glances down at the screen.

“Forty-seven.”

The truck stutters as Bellamy stares at her in surprise, missing third gear.

“You’re kidding, right?”

She shakes her head.

“You know that’s not normal,” he says quietly. She sighs.

“Well, you know. Normal would be too easy.” The mood in the truck has dampened significantly, so she looks over at him, thoughtful. “So, what’s your story?”

“What?” He takes his eyes off the road again, just for a second, to frown at her.

“You’re the bartender, you get to hear everyone’s life stories. What’s yours?”

“I’m a History major who works in a bar.” He shrugs. “And on occasion, I drive drunk blondes around the city so that my boss won’t lose his liquor license.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, even though she knows he can’t see it in the dark.

“That’s not a story. That’s the press release they put on the book jacket.”

He’s quiet for so long that Clarke begins to think she overstepped, that he’s not going to answer.

“My mom died when I was fourteen, my little sister was ten. My dad wasn’t around, so I convinced CPS that we were going to live with him, and then I dropped out of school and got a job. I raised her, and took night classes to finish high school. And now I work at a bar, which is called Johnny’s, by the way, and I’m writing my dissertation.”

It’s a lot of information to take in, especially with her blood alcohol content probably hovering somewhere near twice the legal limit. She watches his fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

“My dad died. He was…they said it was radiation poisoning, from one of the projects he was working on. But he was so careful. And I found out that he was about to blow the whistle on some stuff before he died, inspectors signing off on work that wasn’t up to code. He gave his boss an ultimatum, either fix it, or he’ll go to the press. And then he died.” She blows out a breath, because she never talks about his death, never, not even with her friends. Bellamy is silent beside her, but he doesn’t interrupt. “The company he was working for at the time, Phoenix Aerospace, my mom married their CEO a few years ago.”

“Do you…You think he had something to do with it?”

Clarke shrugs.

“I know him. He used to come around the house sometimes. I don’t think anything happened in that company that he didn’t know about.”

“That’s…pretty terrible,” he admits. Clarke giggles, she can’t help it.

“Yeah.” Then the smile slips off her face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a competition. I was just trying to-”

“Relate,” he finishes. “It’s okay. Considering how much you’ve had to drink, you’ve been surprisingly appropriate all night. Discounting the lime thing.”

She flushes, and finds herself glad his eyes are on the road.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” she says softly.

“I’m sorry about your dad.”

She turns to look out the window, watching the streetlamps burn streaks of light into her vision.

“It’s just a thing I have, now,” she muses. “Everyone’s got one. You know it will be there when you wake up in the morning, when you get a promotion, when your best friend dies.” Outside, grungy restaurants slowly transition into clean brick and bright storefronts as she speaks. “Or when you find out your boyfriend is cheating on you, on his birthday, and you’re drunk and a stranger is driving you home. And you’re thinking ‘you know, if my dad were here, I could have called him.’ That’s a thing dads do, clean up their daughters when they get messy. And he’s gone. So now I have to clean myself up.”

Bellamy is quiet again, the cab of the truck falling into silence until they pull up in front of Clarke’s building.

“For what it’s worth,” he says suddenly, as she reaches down to undo her seatbelt. “You’re not really a mess.”

Clarke peers incredulously up at him, still struggling with her seatbelt.

“I got so drunk the _bartender_ had to drive me home. On a _Tuesday_. And I’m stuck,” she mutters, tugging fruitlessly at the buckle keeping her strapped to her seat. He reaches over, pressing the red button and pulling the buckle apart.

“I’ve seen a lot of scorned lovers sit where you did today,” he reminds her. “Most of them didn’t hold it together as well as you. I think you’re going to be okay.”

She nods, finally free to go, and opens the door. Then she pauses.

“Thank you. For everything.”

He looks uncomfortable.

“Just doing my job.”

“You could have called a cab.”

Her words hang between them, and he doesn’t deny it. Suddenly, he reaches down to unbuckle is own seatbelt, pulling the keys from the ignition.

“I’ll walk you to your door.”

Something about Clarke wants to argue, to tell him that she can get there on her own, thank you very much. But another part, a bigger part, isn’t quite ready to watch him go. So she shrugs, climbing out of the truck, and she hits the pavement with a stumble. His arm is around her before she has a chance to fall, and she wonders vaguely how he got there so quickly. She points to the brick walk-up with double oak doors, one of the only ones on the street without a doorman. He helps her up the stairs, and it surprises her a little how much she needs it. There’s something about sitting while drinking that fools you into thinking you’re a lot better off than you are. The moment her feet had hit the sidewalk, the full impact of four hours’ worth of whiskey hit her meanly.

 Her hand is in her pocket before they make it to the door, and she digs out a green New York-Presbyterian lanyard, fumbling with the overloaded keyring.

After a few failed attempts at locating the right one, Clarke just passes the lanyard over to Bellamy.

“It’s the gold Weiser one, the bottom’s all wiggly,” she mumbles, leaning against the wall for support.

“See,” Bellamy mutters, sifting through a couple gold keys before fitting the right one into the door. “If I’d just dumped you in a cab, how would you have gotten inside?”

He has a point, but Clarke ignores it, holding out her hand for the lanyard. He closes his fingers around it.

“How about I walk you up?” It’s phrased as a question, but she recognizes it for what it is, an order.

“You’re bossy.” Clarke pushes past him, but doesn’t object when he follows her inside. Jabbing at the elevator button, she fights the urge to stick out her tongue at him.

“So I’ve been told. Many times.”

She sneaks a glance at him as the elevator doors open, and they both step inside. She hits the _4_ button, and the doors glide shut.

“Sister?”

He shrugs.

“It was kind of an adjustment, having to be the one to tell her no all the time, to eat her vegetables, to go to bed. I was fourteen, I knew I was way too young to be taking care of her, so I just worried all the time.”

“You were so worried that something would happen to her that you smothered her. And then you were worried that you were ruining her childhood.”

He stares at her, and she realizes, again, that she accidentally spoke out loud.

“Wh-yeah,” he mutters. “That’s pretty much it exactly.”

Clarke smiles sadly.

“My mom was like that, after my dad died. All of a sudden I wasn’t allowed to step foot outside after dark, or take the subway, or walk anywhere. It only got worse after my best friend was killed. She was holding on so tightly I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t really understand it until after I moved out, I was all she had left, and she was terrified of losing me.”

A small _ding_ alerts them to their arrival on her floor. He still has her keys, so she just says _Silver, Schlage, L-shaped,_ and listens to the jingling behind her as they pass units 4A and 4C.

“It fucks you up.” His voice mixes with the sound of bouncing keys. Clarke comes to a halt outside her door, waiting for him to finish. “Losing family.” There’s a long pause, and then the key sounds stop. Bellamy appears beside her, and slides her key into the lock, swinging the door open.

Clarke thinks about the way it felt when the doctor had hovered above her father’s bed, voice low when he uttered the words _radiation poisoning_. She hadn’t known what they meant, she was only eleven at the time, but the way her mother’s face had turned white told Clarke all she needed to know. Her father died less than twenty-four hours later. Clarke was holding his hand, and she knew he was gone when it stopped shaking. He’d been trembling with pain for days, it didn’t seem to matter what they gave him. He said it was like his nerves were on fire. Clarke wasn’t supposed to hear that, but.

And then it was nine in the morning, and his hand stopped shaking. So she cried. She cried because he was gone, because even at eleven she was glad he wasn’t in pain anymore, and because he’d left her all alone. Abbie had told her not to cry in front of her father, but he wasn’t here anymore. So she sobbed until she threw up, and her mother yelled at a nurse to come take her away, and when the sedation kicked in, she’d dreamed that she was burning.

And then, years later, she found out about Wells on the news. CNN with breakfast was just a routine in the Griffin household, Abbie liked to be prepared in case there was some kind of disaster that would be flooding the hospital with casualties when she got to work, and one day Clarke looked up to see her best friend’s face plastered beside a picture of a cop car. And then she saw the caption.

_Governor’s son, gunned down by police._

It was a fucking mess. He’d been out for a run, headphones in, hadn’t heard the cops calling out for him to stop. They shot him six times in the back, he was dead before the ambulance arrived. The officers had given a statement saying they thought he was a suspect in a home invasion. The first glimpse they got of his face was when the paramedics rolled his body over on the pavement.

The Governor’s son. Sixteen years old.

Her memories get foggy after that. She knows Abbie tried to turn the TV off, remembers screaming at her to leave it on, because they had to wait, this was all a mistake, any second now they were going to retract it. They need to leave it on.

But it wasn’t a mistake.

A week later she was sitting in the front row at his funeral, and there were a million people in various uniforms standing stiffly across from them, but the press wanted to talk to _her_.

She only did it because she could see the reporters eyeing Thelonious hungrily, like wild dogs stalking a rabbit in the woods. It hadn’t gone well.

They asked her if she was dating the Governor’s son. _No_. How she felt about the shooting. _Sad. Angry._ What was the Governor’s son like? Did he do drugs? Did he drink? Did he ever get in trouble?

And then Clarke snapped.

 _His name is Wells. Not the Governor’s son. Wells. He didn’t do anything wrong, and now he’s dead. The officers who killed him made a mistake, a fatal mistake, and they killed a sixteen year-old boy who was my best friend and hadn’t done anything wrong. Go ask_ them _if_ they _do drugs, and get the hell out of here. This is a private service._

The officers lost their badges, and Thelonious lost his next election, and Clarke lost whatever shreds of her innocence had survived losing father.

 

Now, she looks at Bellamy, realizing neither of them have spoken for a few minutes. He’s watching her curiously, obviously wondering where her head just went.

“Yeah. It does,” she replies, in answer to his previous statement. “Do you want to come in?” He looks good, very good standing in her doorway, dark eyes focused on her. His lips part in surprise.

 “I…don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re well past my usual three drinks rule,” he says quietly, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he frowns down at her thoughtfully.

“You have a rule?”

“More like a code.” When she smirks, he seems to decide he hasn’t offended her. “You going to be alright?”

She will be. Eventually.

“It’s funny,” she muses, “that after everything, this still hurts. This is nothing, you know? Nobody even died this time.”

His brows draw together, turning her keys over in his hands.

“You’re kind of a tragic drunk, you know that?”

She smiles, a little bitterly.

“Only on my bad days.” She holds out her hand, and he drops the keys into it. “Thank you for taking me home.”

“Sure.” He just bobs his head, hands in his pockets. “Drink water. Take Advil. Don’t call the ex.”

Her grin widens.

“I bet you’re a great big brother.”

A subtle flush creeps along his neck, barely noticeable on his olive complexion.

“Uh, thanks. Goodnight, Clarke.”

All of a sudden, her bed begins to call to her, eyes drooping.

“G’night Bellamy.” She closes the door, and doesn’t hear his footsteps begin to retreat until after the lock clicks into place.

.-.-.-.-.

She wakes up the next morning with a punishing headache and a hundred and fifty dollars tucked into the slit in her keyring.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Any ID?”
> 
> “Not that we could find. It’s-it’s a mess out there, Clarke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I think I have most of this story written. If I get enough comments I might just do a chapter dump and put up a couple at a time. Please let me know what you think!

She doesn’t go back to the bar. She’s a little embarrassed, about the getting wasted part, and the spilling her guts part, and the drunkenly hitting on the nice bartender who drove her home part. And that’s not even including the lime incident, which her recollection of is a little hazy, although she’s decided she’s just going to repress whatever’s left of that memory anyways.

As the weeks pass, Finn’s betrayal begins to feel more like a scar than a bruise, and Clarke gets so busy at work that she barely has time to worry about it all. Today is especially hectic, an oil transport turned over and exploded causing a massive pileup, and as the resident trauma surgeon, the carnage is certainly keeping Clarke on her toes. Just as she finishes updating one chart, another gurney rolls into the ER. She hurries over, eyes scanning the brace on the young woman’s neck, and the abrasions dotting her arms and face.

“What do we have?”

“Twenty-four year old female, she was thrown off her motorcycle when the oil transport exploded. She was unconscious on scene, but she’s been in and out on the way here. No obvious life-threatening injuries, but you know how it is,” Monty tells her, helping Clarke lift the backboard and slide the woman onto a different stretcher.

“Any ID?”

“Not that we could find. It’s-it’s a mess out there, Clarke.”

She looks up at her friend, surprised by his tone. He’s been a paramedic longer than she’s been out of med school, and his pupils are still wide with shock.

“Hey, are you okay to do this?” she asks softly, gesturing to the girl. He takes a moment, but nods. Clarke turns to the nearest intern, a quiet dark skinned girl named Indra. “Okay, I want X-rays of her neck and shoulders, and an MRI. If those are clear, get me a head CT.” Indra nods, then scampers away. Another ambulance pulls up outside, and Monty glances at Clarke. She nods. “Go.”

Just as Clarke turns back to the patient, the young woman gasps, eyes flying open.

“I-” She claws at her neck, feeling the brace there, and her breathing stutters with anxiety.

“Hey,” Clarke soothes her, finding an unmarked piece of her arm to rub gently. “You’re okay, you were in a car accident, but now you’re at the hospital. I’m going to take care of you. Can you tell me your name?”

“I don’t I-am I paralyzed?” the girl gasps wheezily, and Clarke can tell she’s going into shock.

“No, you can move your arms,” she says, nodding at the movement. “Can you wiggle your toes?”

One of the girl’s boots must have been thrown off in the accident, because her foot is bare. The set of hot pink tipped toes twitch. Clarke nods.

“Okay, good. No, you’re not paralyzed. The brace is just to keep everything in place until I can run some tests and make sure you’re not hurt.”

The brunette stares back at her, then sighs shakily.

“My brother is going to kill me.”

Clarke grins, glad to see that the woman’s cognitive skills seem normal. She still wants the head CT, but it’s a good sign.

“Well, brothers worry. Or so I’ve been told. Does this hurt?” She presses lightly on the woman’s abdomen. The patient tries to shake her head, but the brace gets in the way.

“Uh, no. My shoulder hurts though,” she says, eyes darting down at her left shoulder. Clarke presses her hands against it, running them along her clavicle, and back across her shoulder blade. The skin feels unusually warm.

“You might have a fracture. We’re going to get some X-rays, okay? And then we’ll know what we’re dealing with. Can you tell me your name?” she asks again. Now that some of the shock seems to have worn off, the woman answers.

“Octavia. Blake.”

Clarke smiles down at her.

“Okay, Octavia. I’m Clarke Griffin. I’m going to send you with Indra now, and I’ll see you when your scans are done.”

“Okay.”

The gurney disappears down the hall toward the elevator, and Clarke grabs the nearest tablet, starting Octavia’s chart. The line up for radiology is long, an inevitability whenever there’s a traffic accident, and Clarke is suturing her third patient in a row when she hears raised voices coming from the nurse’s station.

“What do you mean you can’t tell me anything? I want to see her!”

Finishing the last stitch, Clarke tugs the thread into a knot and snips off the end.

“You’re all good to go,” she says, smiling at the older woman. Then she turns, following the sound of voices until she rounds the corner.

A tall, dark haired man is standing at the desk, glowering at one of the temps.

“What’s the problem?” Clarke asks, walking toward them. They both turn at the sound of her voice, the temp recognizing her as a doctor and sagging in relief. Then she recognizes the other face looking back at her. “Bellamy?”

“Clarke?” He stares at her. “What are you doing here?”

She points awkwardly at the badge on her coat.

“I work here. What are you doing here?”

“My sister was in a car accident. Apparently a gas rig _exploded_ , and no one can tell me what’s going on, and-” His eyes are wild, a stark contrast to the cool, collected man she remembers from a few weeks ago.

“Okay.” She puts her hand on his arm, grabbing a new tablet from the charging station in front of them. “What’s your sister’s name?”

He deflates a little as he realizes he’s finally found someone who can get him answers.

“Octavia Blake.”

She glances up at him in surprise.

“Octavia is your sister?”

He gapes at her.

“You _know_ her?”

“Well, no,” she murmurs, leading him away from the nurse’s station and guiding him onto a chair. “But she came in a little while ago, she’s actually one of my patients.” When Bellamy makes a move to interrupt her, she holds up a hand and continues. “She seemed okay, no obvious signs of trauma, just a little banged up. I ordered a bunch of tests just to be sure nothing is serious, that’s where she is now.”

Bellamy sags in relief.

“You saw her?”

Clarke nods.

“Yeah, I talked to her. She has a couple scrapes, and she’s going to have some good bruises, but aside from some pain in her shoulder I really think she’s going to be okay.”

He makes a noise halfway between a sigh and a sob, and drops his head into his hands.

“I want to see her.” His words are muffled into his fingers, but Clarke could have predicted them anyways.

“She’s in radiology right now, but I promise I will personally come find you the moment she’s done.” Clarke reaches out, giving his hand a quick squeeze. When she moves to get up, he’s still holding fast.

“She’s all I’ve got.”

He doesn’t even look up as he says it, but Clarke thinks about that night, the last conversation they had.

“I know,” she says softly. “I’ll take care of her, okay?”

He doesn’t even know her, she’s suddenly not sure why she thinks he would trust her, but he looks up with a tired smile.

“Thanks.” He lets her hand go, and she nods, turning on her heel.

Indra is just finishing Octavia’s X-rays when Clarke gets to radiology. The intern hands over the films, and Clarke slides them onto the backlight and squints up at the images.

“How are you hanging in there, Octavia?”

The brunette looks exhausted, but she shoots Clarke a weak smile.

“I’ve been worse.”

Clarke looks at her.

“Your brother’s here, he was asking about you.”

Octavia squirms on her stretcher.

“Bell’s here? I bet he’s mad.”

Suppressing a smile, Clarke shakes her head.

“Just worried.” Then she turns back to the films. “You’ve got a hairline fracture on your Scapula, which is actually kind of impressive. It shouldn’t need surgery, but you won’t be back on that bike anytime soon.”

Looking relieved, Octavia nods.

“Am I going to need physio?”

“Probably. Any kind of injury to the shoulder needs continuous rehab in order to keep it from healing improperly.”

That seems to trouble her patient, who falls silent, eyes broody. She looks a little more like her brother when she does that, but Clarke still doesn’t find a lot of resemblance between the siblings. Octavia’s complexion is a lot lighter than her brother’s, and her bright green eyes don’t at all resemble Bellamy’s brown ones. But they do have a similar jaw, Octavia’s a softer version of his. And they’re both exceedingly attractive.

“Let’s get you that MRI.”

Clarke wheels her across the hall. Octavia remains quiet through the MRI, and the CT scan, and when they’re both done, Clarke frowns down at her as she helps the younger girl into a wheelchair.

“Are you okay? Is the pain really bad?” she asks, wondering why the previously chatty brunette has suddenly gone silent.

“It’s fine,” Octavia replies, but she doesn’t elaborate. Clarke wheels her into an overnight room, and helps her into the bed. The sling Clarke strapped onto her patient earlier gets caught on the chair, and Octavia jerks back with a huff. She’s obviously in pain, but Clarke can’t figure out why she won’t admit to it.

Just then, one of the newest surgical interns, a young med student named Charlotte, enters the room. Clarke hands her the tablet.

“Get familiar with this chart. When I come back I want you to update the next of kin.”

Charlotte nods, and Clarke turns back to Octavia.

“I’m just going to go get your brother, okay?”

As she looks down at her, Clarke can’t but notice the bruising that’s already beginning to blossom along the young woman’s jaw. It looks worse than it is, but she knows Bellamy isn’t going to like it. She instructs Charlotte to start a hydrocodone drip, and takes one last look at the girl laying sadly in bed before leaving.

Bellamy is exactly where she left him, leg bouncing as he taps his heel against the floor. He doesn’t notice her come up beside him, and jumps a little when she puts her hand on his leg, stilling it.

“Hey. You can see her now.”

He practically jumps off the chair, and Clarke leads him down the hallway, toward her room.

“Is she-”

“She’s fine. I’ll give you guys the details together, but she’s going to be fine.” Clarke pauses outside the door, and Bellamy moves to go in, but she puts a hand on his arm, holding him back.

“What?”

She bites her lip.

“Just remember, it looks worse than it is.”

And then she lets him go. He strides into the room, stopping abruptly when he sees his sister propped up in bed, her face already swollen and purpling, road rash decorating both arms. His eyes travel over the sling, and the black stitches on her forehead.

“Oc _tav_ ia,” he says, so gently Clarke wants to avert her eyes.

“Hey big bro.” She gives him a wide grin, wincing when the cut on her lip opens again. “Oh, oops.” Her tongue darts out, licking at the dribble of blood.

Clarke walks over, wiping it away with a tissue.

“Maybe try _not_ to do that,” she suggests, and Octavia rolls her eyes. Clarke looks back over at Bellamy, whose mouth is twisted into a tight line, shoulders stiff. He’s not taking this well, she can tell. She glances at Charlotte.

“Status?”

Charlotte opens her mouth, looking down at the tablet.

“Octavia Blake, twenty-four. Fractured Scapula, superficial abrasions on about a quarter of her body, minor head wound but no sign of concussion.”

Clarke nods.

“No sign of traumatic brain injury or internal hemorrhaging, left foot lost on scene.”

“Wait, _what-”_ Bellamy chokes, head snapping back to stare at his sister. “ _What do you mean she lost her fucking foot-”_

Clarke jumps forward, snatching the tablet out of Charlotte’s hand and shooing the intern out the door.

“No,” she says loudly, trying to cut through the noise of Bellamy’s shouting. “No, _boot_ , she was reading my notes and she made a-”

“ _Oh my god.”_ Bellamy is staring at his sister in horror, who looks more bemused than anything else, the painkillers already kicking in to confuse her. “ _I can’t beli-_ ”

“BELLAMY!” Clarke shouts, and he finally stops babbling long enough to look at her. “Octavia’s feet are fine, look.” She throws back the sheets to reveal two slightly scraped, but entirely functional feet. He stares at them for a moment, then lets out a jagged breath.

“Christ,” he mutters, and Clarke walks around the bed to pull up a chair for him to sink into.

It’s silent for a moment, only the mechanical sounds of the equipment and Bellamy’s uneven breathing cutting through the quiet. Then Octavia giggles.

“It’s not funny,” mumbles Bellamy, scrubbing a hand over his face. But Clarke can’t help it, the corners of her own mouth twitching, and soon she’s joining in, leaning against the wall for support. He glares at the two of them, but even he succumbs eventually, and they all laugh until Clarke has to wipe tears from her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she tries to apologize, “that was really unprofessional.”

He just shrugs, and Octavia grins dopily up at the two of them.

“It’s okay.”

Clarke glances down at Octavia, whose eyes are slowly drifting shut.

“Um,” she whispers. “Do you want to go into the hall to talk? She could probably use the rest.”

He nods, and follows her out into the hallway.

“She’s really okay?” are the first words out of his mouth, his eyes burning into hers.

Clarke places a hand on his shoulder, smiling gently.

“She’s really okay. She’s going to need physiotherapy to make sure that she regains a full range of motion as her shoulder heals, and I told her she wouldn’t be riding her motorcycle again anytime soon, but she’ll make a full recovery.”

“God.” Bellamy leans against the wall, and Clarke joins him, their arms touching.

“I know it’s scary,” she says, because she does. She’s been on both sides of the hospital experience. He laughs, and she can hear the strain beneath it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been that terrified,” he admits. She reaches over to pat him on the shoulder, and he traps her hand there with his own.

“She thought you’d be mad.”

He turns to look at her, confused.

“That’s one of the first things she said when she came in. ‘My brother is going to kill me.’ I told her not to worry about it, but I didn’t know she was your sister at the time.”

He snorts.

“Well, she was right. But I’ll wait until she’s feeling better to yell at her about the bike. So,” he cocks his head, studying her. “you’re a doctor.”

“Yup. A trauma surgeon actually.”

He frowns.

“Trauma surgeon? But…O wasn’t a surgical patient was she?”

Clarke shakes her head.

“No. I normally would have handed her off to another doctor after we determined that she was a nonsurgical case, but…” She shrugs. “I thought it might help if you knew the person who was treating her. Even if you do think I’m an alcoholic.”

He laughs again, and this time it sounds a lot lighter.

“I don’t think you’re an alcoholic, I haven’t even seen you at the bar since that night. And…thanks.” His voice drops when he thanks her, and her stomach clenches uncomfortably.

“I owed you. And besides, I like your sister. She seems…brave.” But even as Clarke says so, she remembers the way the brunette’s eyes had clouded over at the mention of physio.

Stifling a yawn, Bellamy rolls his eyes.

“You have no idea.”

“She didn’t seem big on the idea of physio,” Clarke adds curiously. “When I mentioned it she seemed to quiet down pretty quickly.” His eyes snap over to her and he freezes. The he smiles, but she can tell it’s forced.

“She’s probably just mad that she won’t be able to get back on the bike for a while,” he says casually, too casually. She knows there’s more too it, but it’s not really any of her business, so Clarke hums in agreement.

“I should probably get going. I have some other patients to check on,” she murmurs, pulling away from the wall and straightening up. “Octavia needs to stay overnight for observation, just in case. But you can take her home in the morning. If the nurses try to give you shit about visiting hours, just tell them you’re a friend of mine.”

He nods, and Clarke thinks again how tired he looks. She’s halfway down the hallway when she hears her name. Turning back, she sees Bellamy hurrying toward her.

“Everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” he shifts his weight, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

She blinks.

“You already did.”

“Yeah,” he waves that off. “I know. I just, I really mean it. You know what it’s like to lose family, and I just…” He shrugs. “Thank you.”

Touched, Clarke leans in, brushing her lips against his cheek.

“You’re welcome.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a card, handing it to him. “If you need anything, or if you just want to talk…” she trails off as he takes it from her, watching him read it.

“Thanks.” He looks up, holding the card. Clarke just nods stiffly, and then walks away again.

She’s already in the elevator when it clicks, the look on Octavia’s face when Clarke took her in for all the scans, and then mentioned physio on top of everything else. Bellamy’s fake smile when she mentioned it, the grad student who’s been supporting his sister since he was fourteen years-old, who works nights in a bar.

“Damnit,” she mutters, holding the button she just pressed until the light goes off, and then punching a different one. The woman beside her, an orthopedic surgeon named Callie, watches this and frowns.

“Hey Griffin, since when do you hang out in Accounting?”

Clarke sighs.

“I don’t. But I have something to take care of.”


	4. Chapter 4

Three days later, Clarke is taking advantage of the fact that it’s her day off, and sleeping in. She was at the hospital until two-thirty in the morning, so when she hears the banging on her door, she tries to ignore it.

“Go away!” She shouts, but either they don’t hear her, or they ignore her, and the banging continues. Groaning, she slides out of bed, stumbling toward the front door with a rapidly growing hatred for whoever is on the other side of it.

“What the _fuck_ do you-” she begins, swinging the door open, and then she sees who it is, and stops. “Bellamy?”

“What the hell is this?” He thrusts a piece of paper at her. Clarke just stands there, gawping and confused, until he waves the paper in front of her face again. Recovering from the shock, she snatches it out of his hand. She squints down at it, but it’s useless without her contacts in.

“I need my glasses. I guess you might as well come in.” She marches toward her bedroom, hearing the door close behind him. She grabs the tortoiseshell frames from her bedside table, and turns her attention to the piece of paper in her hand.

“It’s an invoice,” she rasps, eyes scanning the page. “It’s from the hospital.”

Back in the foyer, Bellamy nods, crossing his arms over his chest. For the first time that morning, Clarke actually looks at him. His eyes are bright with anger, finger tapping irritably on his bicep.

“Yeah. Read the total at the bottom.”

She does.

“Six hundred dollars.” Then she looks up, nonplussed. “So?”

He barks out a short, bitter laugh.

“Two years ago, I was working for a nursery. The plant kind.” He pauses and Clarke nods. “One day I was on a job, trimming this massive old maple so we could fit a new oak beside it. I fell out of the tree and I dislocated my shoulder.”

She isn’t sure if it’s just the fact that she barely got any sleep, or that she’s only been awake for about five minutes, or if it’s Bellamy, but she doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

“Um,” she clears her throat. “That sucks?”

He glares at her, and she falls silent.

“The hospital put it in a sling, gave me some painkillers, and sent me on my way. I was only there for like three hours.”

“I’m still lost,” Clarke mumbles sleepily, moving toward the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.

“They charged me ten grand.”

Ah. She’s beginning to see where this is headed.

“You don’t have insurance,” she pretends to realize, pouring half the bag of coffee grinds into the brewer before turning it on.

“No, I don’t have insurance.”

Slowly, she turns around, leaning against the counter and looking at him.

“Okay.” There doesn’t seem to be any benefit to antagonizing him, but on the off chance she’s wrong about why he’s upset, Clarke decides to let him lead the conversation.

“So why,” he wonders, nodding at the invoice sitting beside her on the counter, “is Octavia’s invoice, which I know should include a CT and at least a couple X-rays, only six hundred dollars?”

“I’m guessing you already know the answer to that,” Clarke suggests, “considering you’re here banging on my door at seven in the morning on my day off.”

“What did you do?” His voice is deadly quiet.

“I pulled some strings,” she retorts, firmly returning his stare. “I do work at the hospital, you realize. There are perks.”

His nostrils flare.

“Clarke. What did you do?”

Giving in, she sighs.

“It’s called a sidewalk consult. I was Octavia’s primary physician, and I just didn’t charge for my services. All you got charged for was the painkillers, basically. And admitting, but not overnight.” When he continues to stare her down, she rolls her eyes. “I told them I had a family member in there.”

A few minutes go by, only the gurgling of the coffeemaker breaking the silence as he looks at her, obviously having some kind of internal debate.

Finally, he speaks.

“Did she say something to you?”

Clarke blinks.

“Octavia? No.”

“Was it…” He hesitates. “Was it the truck?”

She’s confused for a moment, and then she remembers the truck he drove her home in.

“No,” she says softly. “I just remembered what you told me about taking care of her, and I figured you probably don’t have insurance through your work. It made sense, the way Octavia reacted when I was talking about months of physiotherapy. She was worried about how much it would cost.”

Still glowering, Bellamy drops into one of the stools at her kitchen island. He glances around, at the granite countertops, the high end appliances, the view out her floor to ceiling windows. She wonders exactly how much that bothers him in the moment, as he sits in the apartment she knows she takes for granted and yells at a veritable stranger for getting rid of expenses she knew he couldn’t afford. Probably a lot.

“I don’t want O to worry about money.”

She looks at him.

“She’s supposed to just be focused on getting better, and, I don’t know. I’m supposed to protect her, not make her feel like a burden.”

“Well,” Clarke slides into the seat next to him. “I don’t think she feels like a burden. Siblings worry about each other, you don’t get to have a monopoly on that.”

“How would you know?” he asks, and he winces when she stiffens. “I didn’t mean-”

“No,” she cuts him off, standing up to pour herself a cup of coffee. “You’re right. I don’t have any siblings.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have said that. I think you get it. You seem to get a lot of things.” He sounds wistful now, as Clarke turns her head to look at him.

“Coffee?” She asks, hoping a change of subject will help. He nods sheepishly, then shakes his head when she holds up the creamer and sugar.

She sits back down beside him, and they slurp quietly.

“She had a CT, right?”

Clarke groans, hopes of finally talking about something else dashed.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Bellamy,” she sighs. “Who is this going to help?”

He fixes her with a determined stare, and she relents.

“We gave her two CTs, a handful of X-Rays, and an MRI.”

This seems to surprise him.

“I didn’t…” His hand curls around the mug in front of him defensively. “How much?”

Clarke wants to bang her head on the counter.

“Including all the scans, her hydrocodone, and the semi-private room overnight…twenty thousand dollars.”

That’s still a conservative number, and it probably would have cost less if Octavia had ended up almost anywhere other than NYP, but she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that.

The quiet is different this time, and it takes a minute for Clarke to realize that he’s holding his breath.

“Bellamy,” she says, a little alarmed.

He breathes out all at once, cheeks flushed.

“Jesus Christ.”

Clarke drains the last of her coffee, keeping one eye on him.

“You still mad at me?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, “no.”

“Okay.”

He stands up suddenly, startling Clarke.

“I should probably go.”

“Uh,” mind reeling, she tries to keep up. “Alright.”

He turns sharply toward the door, and she pads after him.

He hesitates, hand on the doorknob.

“I’m sorry I woke you up on your day off. And interrogated you. And yelled at you.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Yeah.” Clarke folds her arms across her chest, mimicking his earlier stance. “You’ve been quite the asshole today.”

His eyebrows shoot up, lips quirking in the closest thing to a smile he’s displayed all morning.

“I’m also sorry I called you a stuck up bitch.”

It’s her turn to raise her eyebrows.

“I must have missed that part,” she mutters.

He grins, the last of the anger dissolving from his face.

“Well, I said it in the car on the way over here.”

“Hmm.” Clarke just purses her lips. “How did you get in here, anyways?” The door to her front building should have been locked. He looks caught, eyes darting toward the door.

“I waited outside until someone left,” he admits. She gapes at him.

“Who _does_ that?”

He’s about to say something, defend himself probably, but they’re interrupted by a knock on the door Bellamy is still resting his hand on. He looks at Clarke, who just shrugs.

“Clarke.” The voice floats in under the door. “It’s Finn. Your neighbour let me in.”

She stares at the door, wondering if this morning could possibly get any more bizarre.

“Well,” says Bellamy, glancing between her and the door, bemused. “Apparently more people than you’d think.”


	5. Chapter 5

Clarke flings the door open, fuming.

“I don’t know _why_ the universe is conspiring against me this morning,” she informs her ex, who blinks as he realizes the door has opened, “but kindly fuck off, and pass the message on to the next creep in line for my front door.”

Finn opens his mouth to respond, then notices Bellamy for the first time.

“Who the hell is that?”

Clarke follows his gaze, glancing behind her in confusion.

“ _That_ is none of your business,” she declares, realizing he’s talking about Bellamy. She pulls the door slightly shut, so only her head and half her torso are exposed. “What do you want?”

“You sent Jasper to drop off the box of my stuff last night! Clarke, this is crazy. I want you back.”

She groans, and moves to close the door the rest of the way. Finn sticks out his foot, wedging the door open, and from behind her, Bellamy makes a noise of indignance.

“Finn, move your foot before I _remove_ it.”

He looks slightly taken aback by her hostility, but stays put.

“Clarke, come on. We were moving in together. You can’t tell me you don’t miss me. Just give me another chance. I love you.”

Ignoring the sound of retching behind her, Clarke grits her teeth.

“No. You cheated on me, denied it _while you were still in bed with her,_ and you _still_ haven’t even apologized.”

His eyes widen in surprise, like maybe he’d just forgotten.

“I’m so-”

“Oh god.” She makes a face, embarrassed for both of them. “Not now, it’s way too late. Please just leave. Goodbye, Finn.” And then, kicking at his sneaker with her bare foot, Clarke dislodges it and shuts the door behind him.

For a moment she just stays there, back against the door, hands pressed to her face. Eventually, another hand peels one of hers away, and she opens her eye. Bellamy peers back at her, looking concerned.

“You alright?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “But you’re going to have to wait until I know he’s gone to leave. I am not opening that door again.”

His only response is a shrug, and she walks past him into the living room, collapsing onto the couch with a groan.

“This is the worst day off ever. And it’s not even eight-thirty.”

He manages to look appropriately apologetic, hovering a few feet away.

“So that’s the birthday boy, huh?”

Clarke snorts.

“That’s him.”

After a few seconds, Bellamy begins to drift back toward the door.

“I think he’s gone,” he says tentatively, and Clarke frowns at him from her spot on the couch. “I’m gonna get going.”

Exhausted, she just gives him a half salute, similar to the one he got from the busboy at his bar a few weeks ago.

Bellamy’s halfway out the door before he turns back.

“You’ve got free drinks for life, by the way. At Johnny’s.”

It’s more a gesture than anything, she knows that. But Clarke smirks at him.

“I’d be careful with that offer if I were you.”

His answering smile sends a shot of heat straight to her stomach.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you far away from the limes.”

The reference makes her cheeks flame, and she throws a crochet pillow at him. She misses.

“Go home, Bellamy.”

He tosses back the pillow.

“Thank you. Again.”

She nods, and he ducks out, the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood outside lulling her back to sleep.

.-.-.-.-.

Clarke has never understood why grocery stores rearrange their products every few months.

“It’s so you have to spend more time in the store, looking for stuff,” Raven says beside her. “The longer you’re here, the more statistically likely you are to spend more money.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. The two women started a tentative friendship when the gorgeous Latina showed up at the hospital a few weeks ago, to talk to her. At first, Raven just wanted to know the details of Clarke’s relationship with Finn. The realization that Finn and Raven had been together for four years, the last two of which had been long distance, and that _Clarke_ was the other woman after all, had been a lot to stomach. Raven hadn’t been too pleased either, when Clarke revealed that Finn had asked her to move in with him.

They’d gone to lunch at a pub across the street, made plans to meet up after Clarke’s shift and get drunk, and been almost inseparable ever since. Clarke’s other friends thought it was a little weird, at first, but wholeheartedly changed their minds after meeting her. Six weeks after that first lunch, they find themselves at a grocery store, shopping for party snacks.

“Or,” Clarke counters, grabbing a couple cases of beer and dropping them into the cart. “I’ll just get fed up with it and take my business elsewhere.”

Raven shakes her head.

“No, because they all do it. It’s like doctors. We all need them, so they can be an hour late for every appointment, and change their cancellation policies every two weeks, and there’s nothing we can do. We just have to put up with it.” She suddenly glances over at Clarke, who’s trying to make a decision involving salsa to tortilla chip ratio. “No offense.”

Clarke just shrugs.

“It’s fine. I’m not a GP. If I’m late to an appointment, there usually isn’t a patient anymore.” The thought comes out a little more egotistical than she intended, but it doesn’t bother Raven. “Hey, do you have a preference for cake? I probably should have asked you that like a week ago, but…” She doesn’t really have an excuse. “But I’m a terrible person and didn’t think of it until now.”

The brunette taps her finger thoughtfully against her chin.

“Not really. But if you buy me a grocery store cake, I _will_ tell everyone that you have a genital piercing.”

Clarke gives her a strange look.

“Okay, but I don’t.” Which Raven knows, actually, because they may or may not have gotten hopelessly drunk and hooked up that first night after drinks six weeks ago. The next morning they’d woken up, laughed until a very hungover Raven ran to the bathroom to throw up, and gone out for a very platonic breakfast.

“Yeah,” Raven acknowledges, with a glint in her eye. “But they don’t know that. And how are you going to prove it to them, show them all your vag?”

Rolling her eyes again, Clarke pushes the cart toward the next aisle which used to be produce, but now seems to be dry cereal.

“That might be preferable, actually,” she mutters, and looks up just in time to keep from running into another shopper. “Oh, sorry.”

The other girl blinks at her.

“Dr. Griffin?”

With a start, Clarke recognizes the shopper as Octavia.

“Octavia, Hi. Call me Clarke.” Her eyes automatically go to her shoulder, and she’s unsurprised to see the sling is gone. “How’s your shoulder?”

Octavia shrugs, the movement stiff on one side.

“A lot better. I’m going to physio, which sucks, but it’s helping.”

“I’m glad.” And she is. She really does like Octavia. “And how’s your brother?” Maybe part of her is just trying to figure out what the girl knows, whether Bellamy ever talked about her, but Clarke chooses to live in denial.

“He’s good.” Octavia’s face lights up. “He actually just finished his dissertation, which is... It’s basically been his whole life for like two years. His thesis defense is next week, which he’s freaking out about, but-” She rolls her eyes. “He just likes to worry.”

“I picked up on that,” Clarke says, smiling. Octavia’s smile dims, and she shakes her head.

“Sorry, you don’t even really know him. That was probably too much information,” she apologizes, grinning sheepishly.

So Bellamy hasn’t told her sister. About any of it.

Raven finally appears again, her arms full of frozen food. When she dumps the bags into the cart, Clarke reads the labels.

“You’re getting six bags of McCain’s smiley fries?” she asks incredulously. “You know we’re ordering pizza, right?” Raven crosses her arms defensively.

“Hey. It’s my party. I can fry if I want to,” Raven says with a wink, looking smug at her own joke. Clarke groans.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Jasper. Octavia, this is my friend Raven, the four year-old. Raven, this is Octavia Blake. She was a patient of mine.” She waves her hand in the gesture that seems to be universal when making introductions, and the women wave at each other.

“You throwing a party?” Octavia asks.

“It’s Raven’s birthday tomorrow.” And she normally spends it with Finn, a fact she let slip when they’d gotten drunk last week on homemade margaritas and a bottle of Skinny Bitch wine, which they’ve since decided is just watered down grape juice. So Clarke had immediately suggested that she throw Raven’s party this year.

“It’s true, I’m getting old.”

Clarke points a finger threateningly at her friend.

“Watch it, Reyes. I’m older than you.”

Octavia watches their exchange with an interested smirk. Raven notices this, and turns back to her with a thoughtful expression.

“You should come, if you’re free.”

This takes the young Blake by surprise, her eyebrows shooting up.

“Wow that’s…really nice of you.”

Even Clarke is a little surprised, but then again, Raven doesn’t have that many friends in the city.

“You look super creeped out,” Raven notes with a grin. Octavia flushes. “I’m not a stalker or anything, I just don’t know a lot of people here. I moved to Manhattan two months ago, so. I’m trying to expand my social circle.” She leaves out the part where she moved halfway across the country to be with her boyfriend who turned out to be a cheating douchebag, Clarke notices.

“I, uh, actually don’t have plans tomorrow night. I’d love to come.”

Raven nods, like this has been the plan all along.

“Excellent, what’s your phone number, I’ll text you the details.”

As they exchange information, Clarke can’t help but be a little bemused. Why would Bellamy not have told Octavia he knew her? Did he think she’d be embarrassed? Or did he just consider her a stranger he’d crossed paths with more than once?

She continues to mull this over as they check out, Raven loading the bagged groceries back into the cart as she pays. They make it to her car before her friend says anything.

“What’s wrong? Do you not like Octavia?”

At the question, Clarke looks up from rearranging the bags in her trunk.

“Huh? No, I like her. Why?”

Raven narrows her eyes suspiciously.

“You’re pouting about something. What is it?”

“I’m not pouting, and it’s nothing,” Clarke says, slamming the trunk shut. They both climb into the car, but Raven doesn’t let it go.

“Are you stressed about the party? Because like I said, we can just go out-”

“It’s her brother,” Clarke interrupts her. “Her brother is the bartender who drove me home after I found out Finn was cheating on me.”

“Octavia is _his_ sister? I thought you said she was a patient.”

“She was.” Clarke pulls out of the parking lot onto the highway. “It was just a fluke, she happened to be in a car accident when I was working, and Bellamy was her next of kin, so he showed up at the hospital looking for her.”

“Wow,” mutters Raven. “Weird.”

“Yeah. And then a few days later he showed up at my apartment and yelled at me because his sister’s hospital bills were too low.” Objectively, she’s beginning to hear how strange the story sounds. She wonders if that’s why Bellamy didn’t share any of this with Octavia.

“He-wait. You lost me.”

“I got all of Octavia’s scans comped as training expenses, told accounting her room was being used for a family member, and didn’t bill for my hours. So all he got charged for was her painkillers, and…I don’t know. I guess he thought it was charity.”

Her passenger is uncharacteristically quiet, and Clarke glances over at her.

“Was it charity?” Raven finally asks.

“No.”

“Okay, and why would you go to all that trouble for a girl you don’t know?”

“He’s a bartender, he doesn’t have insurance-”

“You must have patients who don’t have insurance all the time-”

“He was nice, he drove me home that time-”

“What do you mean he’s nice? He yelled at you for- _oh my god_. You totally like him.”

Clarke almost rear ends the car in front of her, then turns to glare at her friend.

“I do _not_.”

“Oh.” Raven’s face lights up in a shit-eating grin. “You _so_ do. Is he hot? Octavia’s damn attractive, he must be decent looking.”

“He’s okay,” Clarke says stiffly. Raven just laughs.

“Oh, man. You totally like him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so I know the last chapter was a little short, this ones a more normal length. I'm probably planning to time the final chapter (either 10 or 11, not sure yet) so it goes up after the new episode airs on Thursday. 
> 
> Which basically means I'll be rolling out 5 chapters over the next two days. Hope that's alright with you!
> 
> P.S. Thank you for all the comments! They're definitely motivating me to finish this fic quicker than any other story I've written.


	6. Chapter 6

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t just have it at my place,” Clarke grumbles, tearing open another bag of smiley fries and dumping them onto the cookie sheet.

“Because you live in a really nice building, but your neighbours are snooty,” Raven replies from the living room, unloading another case of beer into the cooler. “They would definitely complain about the noise.”

At that, Clarke straightens up, frowning across the loft at her.

“What? There are like five people coming.”

Raven doesn’t respond to that.

“Raven.” Still nothing. “How many people did you invite, exactly?”

The brunette shrugs, unloading the last can and flattening the box.

“I don’t know, ten?” she says innocently. Clarke groans.

“Oh my god. You invited half of Manhattan didn’t you.”

That just earns her another shrug.

Just as Clarke shoves the last batch of fries into the oven, someone knocks on the door.

“I’ll get it,” she calls, wondering who exactly shows up an hour early to a party. She pulls open the door to find a scruffy looking blonde with a goatee, holding what appears to be a flyer. Clarke gets a very bad feeling in her stomach.

“Hello,” he says. Clarke blinks.

“Hello.”

He holds up the piece of paper.

“Someone shoved this under my door. Are you having a party?”

She stares at him.

“Just a minute.” Turning back to the living room, she shouts, “RAVEN!”

Her friend wanders over, a half eaten smiley fry in her hand. Goatee takes this in with interest.

“Did you hand out flyers?” Clarke hisses, just low enough that she hopes the man can’t hear them. Raven frowns.

“Of course not. What are you talking about?”

Clarke gestures at the guy standing in the hallway, clutching a piece of paper.

“Oh,” Raven says. She looks up at Goatee, crossing her arms. “That was a notice. As in ‘Hey neighbours, I’m having a party. We’re going to be loud. Please don’t report me to the property manager.’ Not an invitation.”

He looks a little offended.

“Yeah, I know. I was just coming to ask if you thought it was going to go all night or not. I’m working on a design for a municipal on-grid backup power supply, and I just wanted to know if I should crash at the office tonight.”

That perks Raven right up, her eyes dragging over him with a newfound interest.

“You’re working on the GenRon project?”

He blinks at the sudden change in mood.

“Uh, yeah. I’m an engineer.”

Her interest quickly turns to disdain.

“Oh,” she sneers. “For a second there I thought you might be interesting.”

Instead of being insulted, he grins.

“Oh, I know who _you_ are. You’re Reyes, aren’t you?”

“The one and only. And you are?”

“Kyle Wick.” He holds out his hand. For a second Raven just looks at it, then she takes it with a sigh.

“Well I _would_ tell you the party will probably be wrapping up by two or three, but you should probably drag your ass to the office anyways. I know how you engineers like to change your designs every five minutes. Not like that makes _my_ job more difficult or anything.”

“Oh, we just do it to keep your ego in check. If we don’t let a little air out of your inflated head every once in a while, you might just float away. And then what would do?” Wick replies, smug.

Clarke just watches the exchange in amusement. She’s yet to meet someone who can match Raven quip for quip, but this guy might just give her a run for her money.

“Why don’t you come to the party?” Clarke asks, already forming a plan. Both of them turn to stare at her in surprise.

“What?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Raven agrees, “what?”

“Look, you’re not going to get any work done anyways. You should just come by for a bit.”

Wick scratches his beard, looking between the two women curiously. His eyes land on Raven, and her petulant scowl.

“I’d love to,” he announces, grinning when Raven’s displeasure only seems to intensify.

“Come back in an hour,” Clarke tells him. He nods, then disappears into a door across the hall, whistling.

As soon as he’s gone, Raven rounds on Clarke.

“What the hell?”

Clarke shrugs.

“I think he’d be good for you. Besides, it’s a bad idea to alienate your neighbours.”

Raven looks like she’s about to say something else, but they’re both distracted when the smoke alarm goes off.

“Shit!” Clarke races toward the kitchen. “The fries.”

.-.-.-.-.

A couple hours later, the party is in full swing. It’s not _quite_ half of Manhattan, but Raven has expanded the guest list considerably. People Clarke have never seen before are packing the apartment, and though her original plan had just been to order two or three pizzas from the place downstairs, the delivery guy calls up before he comes to announce that he’s making multiple trips.

Just as she thinks of it, the same delivery guy walks by, a beer in his hand. Clarke shakes her head. _Raven_.

They’ve stopped answering the door at this point, it’s impossible to hear, so they’ve just taped a sign on the inside of it announcing that whoever is closest when the doorbell rings has to open it. The small party has turned into something reminiscent of Clarke’s college days. But her friend seems to be having a good time, so it’s worth it.

Wick shows up about an hour after the party starts. He waltzes into the kitchen looking entirely at home, drops a case of beer in front of Raven, and only smiles widely when she gives him the finger before walking away.

“I like her,” he tells Clarke, cracking open one of the beers he brought. She suppresses a chuckle.

“Good luck with that.”

Eventually, Clarke notices that one of the few faces she actually was expecting is nowhere to be found.

“Rey,” she squeezes through the throng of people and makes her way over to the birthday girl. “Did Octavia not show?”

Raven blinks, apparently already drunk.

“Uh, she’s going to be late. She needed to get a ride.”

“Oh. Right, she can’t drive.” Clarke probably should have thought of that, offered to get one of the other guests to pick her up.

“Yeah. That Wick guy is an ass. I kicked him out like half an hour ago, and he just wouldn’t leave,” Raven mutters, her eyes tracking him across the room.

“Uh-huh.” Clarke watches her, watching him, and just shakes her head. There’s a brief pause in the music, and for the first time in a while, Clarke actually hears the doorbell. “I’m going to get that.”

She pushes back through the crowd, all of which are apparently ignoring the sign, and opens the door.

“Octavia.” Clarke smiles. “Hey, I’m glad you could make it.”

“I brought ice.”

Clarke scans her, puzzled when she doesn’t see anything in her hands.

“You…”

“Well, technically, Bellamy brought ice,” Octavia clarifies, and her brother chooses that moment to appear, grunting as he carries over two massive bags of ice. He stops when he sees Clarke.

“Hi,” she says, surprised. Her eyes flit to his arms, which are bulging under the strain of the ice.

“Uh, hi.” He looks just as confused as she is, maybe more. Clarke steps aside to let them in, pointing them toward the kitchen, and the fridge.

“You remember Clarke,” Octavia tells her brother. “She’s the ER doctor.”

“Trauma surgeon,” Bellamy corrects automatically, and both women stare at him.

“Right,” Octavia gives him a strange look. “I’m going to go find Raven. Thanks for the ride.”

She nods at her brother, then disappears into the mob. When she’s gone, Bellamy turns back for the door.

“Okay, well. See ya.”

Clarke stares at him.

“You’re leaving?”

He frowns at her.

“Uh, yeah? I just came to drop O off.” His hands are in his pockets again, something Clarke notices he does whenever he’s uncomfortable.

“Don’t be weird. Stay for a bit, have some food,” she says, nodding at the food on the table. “Unfortunately for you, Jasper got high and ate all the smiley fries, but we have like ten pizzas left.”

He hesitates.

“I don’t even know whose party this is.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, scanning the crowd for Raven. When she finds her, she points.

“That’s Raven. She’s not going to mind. Trust me.”

Bellamy seems to be struggling to make a decision, but he eventually reaches out, snagging one of Wick’s beers. Clarke grabs one for herself, humming in approval, and they turn their backs to the counter, looking out at the party.

“Octavia didn’t tell me you were throwing the party.”

“Yeah,” Clarke takes a swig of her beer. “I kind of got that. Seems to be a theme with you two.”

He looks over at her, frowning.

“What?”

She sighs.

“Nothing. Look, I-” She doesn’t get a chance to finish her sentence, because Jasper chooses that moment to shout “COP!”

Head snapping to look at the door, Clarke sees him standing there, accompanied by a surly but attractive, twenty-something cop in full uniform. She moves toward them, but Raven beats her to it.

“Ohh.” The birthday girl grins. “Are you here for a noise complaint?”

The cop nods, looking confused by the smile plastered on her face.

“Uh, yeah. One of your neighbours called it in, look, you guys need to-”

“This is great.” Raven laughs, turning to wink at Clarke. “Seriously you shouldn’t have.”

“What?” Clarke stares at her, confusion turning to horror when she realizes her friend’s mistake. “Oh god, Raven, no-”

Suddenly, Raven leans forward, popping open the first two buttons on his uniform. His eyes bulge in shock, and Clarke practically climbs over the crowd that have gathered around them in an effort to stop this before it goes any further.

“Lady, you realize you’re _assaulting a police officer_ -”

“So cuff me,” Raven purrs, and yeah, she’s totally wasted. The cop just snatches her hand, flicking it away from his chest.

“Fuck,” Clarke finally breaks through the sea of people, pushing Raven off to the side. “I’m sorry, it’s her birthday, she’s really drunk.”

His eyes are still wide with surprise, and they flit between Clarke and Raven suspiciously. The brunette starts pushing at Clarke’s back, whining.

“Raven,” Clarke hisses, doing her best to restrain her friend. “Please stop. He’s not a stripper, okay? He’s an actual cop, who I’m trying to talk out of pressing charges against you for sexual assault.” Raven stops, blinking.

“A _stripper_?” The cop repeats indignantly. “Excuse me? What do you-”

“Miller?”

The cop falls silent as Bellamy appears beside her, his mouth falling open.

“Bellamy?”

Clarke glances between the two of them curiously.

“What the _fuck_ ,” begins the cop, “is going on?”

The two men turn to look at Clarke, who just throws her hands in the air.

“Raven thought he was a stripper,” she offers, and Bellamy snorts while Miller flushes.

“ _Reaallyyy_ ,” Bellamy drawls, smirking.

“Shut up,” Miller snaps. Clarke is still confused.

“Do you two know each other?” Still smirking, Bellamy nods.

“We were roommates when I was an undergrad. I can’t believe you’ve been moonlighting all these years and I never knew,” he adds, and Miller’s scowl deepens.

“I could arrest you, you know.”

“Uh-huh, for what?”

“You’re not going to arrest _me_ are you, because it’s my birthday-”

“Miller?”

“Octavia?”

“She thought you were a stripper, oh dude, I am so telling Murphy-”

“OKAY!” Clarke holds her hands up again, disrupting the chaotic four-way conversation that’s broken out. She turns to Miller. “Raven is very sorry, and we’ll keep it down. Bellamy, leave him alone.” Suddenly struck by an idea, she smiles, turning back to the policeman. “When’s your shift over?”

He looks down at his watch.

“Five minutes ago, this was my last call. Why?”

Octavia, catching on, reaches out to pull him inside, and Clarke shuts the door behind him.

“Here,” Octavia presses a beer into his hand. “Hang out for a bit.”

.-.-.-.

Everything flows smoothly after that, until eleven-thirty.

Clarke is smoking on the balcony when Bellamy finds her. He raises an eyebrow, placing his bottle on the railing.

“I would have thought that, as a doctor, you would know how bad for you those things are.”

She sighs.

“I do. I only smoke when I’m drunk. Or after funerals.” But she crushes the butt into the empty glass in front of her anyways.

“You go to a lot of those?”

She shrugs.

“More than I’d like.”

The night air is cool on her face, refreshing after the stifling heat inside. When she sneaks a glance at him he’s leaning over the railing, looking out at the city.

“We just keep seeming to run into each other, huh?” he asks, tracking the movement of a bus on the street below.

“Sure seems like it,” she agrees, swiping his beer and taking a swig.

“I guess it could be worse.”

Clarke glances over at him. Is he flirting with her? He turns a lazy smile on her, tugging the bottle from her hands. He is.

“I-” She’s about to return the favour, when her eyes fall on Raven through the glass door, cornered by some guy. All she can see is the back of his head, but she recognizes his sweater. “You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

Handing the beer back to Bellamy, she marches inside, placing a hand on Finn’s shoulder and spinning him around. He stares at her in shock, mouth dropping open.

“Clarke?”

“ _What_ ,” she asks, “are you doing here?”

He glances back at Raven, then at the angry blonde in front of him.

“It’s her birthday,” he says weakly.

“Yeah,” Clarke crosses her arms over her chest. “I know. I threw her this party.”

His eyes widen. She takes a moment to look at her friend, the rosy glow gone from her cheeks, eyes sad. The anger bubbling in the pit of Clarke’s stomach erupts.

“Get out of here, Finn,” she says loudly, catching Wick’s eye with a wave of her hand. Finn doesn’t move, but Wick sidles over, curious. Clarke leans in, whispering in his ear. “Can you get her out of here, please?” The engineer takes one look at Raven, then nods, guiding her away with a hand on her arm. Finn watches this uneasily.

“Who was that guy?” he asks, then suddenly seems to notice Bellamy. “And what’s _he_ doing here?”

“Finn. Go. Home.” Clarke snarls. She feels a hand on her shoulder, but ignores it.

“I just wanted to say happy birthday!” Finn insists. “You don’t get it, we always spent her birthday together, ever since we were kids, and-”

Her last shred of self-control falling away, Clarke steps forward, until her finger is jabbing directly into his chest.

“You cheated on her. You hurt her, Finn, and you coming here tonight is only making that worse. You don’t get to keep forcing your way into her life just to make yourself feel better.” Her eyes blaze. His mouth twists, face changing.

“Are we still talking about Raven, Princess?” Finn asks, leaning in to meet her, noses almost touching. Suddenly, he’s stumbling backward, and Bellamy is standing in front of her.

“I think you’ve been asked to leave,” he says quietly, his deep voice carrying through the din of the party. Finn glares up at him.

“No offense, but who the fuck are you?”

Bellamy laughs, eyes flashing dangerously. He steps forward.

“Someone who was invited.”

Out of nowhere, Miller appears, and Clarke is suddenly glad he didn’t go back to the precinct to change. Finn eyes his uniform, seeming to shrink in on himself.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, and Clarke has been watching him interact with Bellamy all night, so she happens to know he’s putting on this air of intimidation just for Finn’s benefit.

“Finn was just leaving,” she says firmly. Finally, he seems to accept this, giving her a last look of betrayal before heading for the door. As soon as it shuts behind him, Clarke feels her whole body go lax with relief.

“Who was that?” Miller asks curiously. Bellamy shoots him a look, but Clarke just shakes her head.

“Ex. Mine, Raven’s. It’s a long story.”

Miller opens his mouth to say something, then seems to change his mind.

“Okay, then.” He shrugs and walks away, dropping next to Monty on the couch. Clarke files that particular observation in the back of her mind for later analysis.

“Raven’s the girl.”

Clarke jumps, having forgotten Bellamy was there.

“Oh, yeah.”

When she looks up at him, he’s peering down at her looking bemused, like he can’t quite figure her out.

“Is there…I feel like I’m missing something. Why are you throwing her a birthday party?”

Clarke gestures toward the hallway, and he follows her into Raven’s home office, which is basically just a room full of power tools and scraps of metal. She closes the door behind them, and the noise of the party cuts in half.

“I threw her a party because we’re friends, and because she told me she always spends her birthday with Finn. I didn’t want her to spend it moping.”

He just continues to stare at her, brow furrowed.

“What?” She crosses her arms over her chest defensively.

“It’s weird.”

“It’s not _weird_.”

“Griffin, it’s weird.”

She blinks.

“Since when do you call me Griffin?”

He scowls, looking down to pick a piece of lint off the sleeve of his plaid flannel shirt. He seems to have a lot of those.

“Well, I figured you probably weren’t big on Princess anymore.” His voice is neutral, almost purposefully so. Clarke studies his face, the tense set of his jaw.

“I don’t mind. I would have told you if it bothered me.”

He glances back up, searching her eyes for something. Confirmation, maybe.

“Hmph,” he finally grunts. “Good to know.”

“Can we go back to the party now?”

He ruffles her hair as he walks past, and Clarke can’t help but wonder if they’ll ever stop leaving all their meetings up to chance.


	7. Chapter 7

The next time she runs into him, she’s having a bad day. A really bad, pick-up-two-bottles-of-wine-on-the-way-home kind of terrible day.

“Nooo,” she groans, spotting the yellow citation on her windshield from half a block away. When she makes it to her car, she snatches it off the window, eyes flying across the page. She’s being fined for parking in a no-parking area. Glancing up at the sign next to her car, she double checks the wording.

_No street parking from 4-dusk._

Then she looks down at her watch. It’s three fifty-seven. She takes a quick picture of the ticket, making sure the time stamp is clearly visible.

“What the fuck?” she wonders aloud, climbing into her car and throwing the ticket in the backseat. “Why?”

As she turns the key in the ignition, the engine stutters, then turns over. She tries again, with the same result.

“FUCK!” She bangs her hands angrily against the dash. Grabbing her phone out of her purse, she dials Raven’s number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me,” Clarke huffs, tapping her fingers agitatedly on her thigh. “You still talk the guys at your old garage, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Do you think you could send someone out to look at my car? I’m outside the Chase on Main, it won’t start, and I got a fucking parking ticket.”

On the other end, Raven snorts.

“Good day, huh?”

Clarke just growls.

“Yeah, I’ll call Ricky. Hold on.”

She hangs up, leaving Clarke sitting in her car, trying to remember to take deep breaths. After a minute or so, her phone rings.  

“Heeeyyyy.” It’s Raven. Clarke narrows her eyes suspiciously at her friend’s overly cheerful tone.

“What? What happened?”

“So they’re totally swamped. Ricky’s going to send someone out to tow you, but it’s going to be like an hour or two.”

Fighting the urge to scream, Clarke bangs her head against the steering wheel.

“Okay, thanks,” she mutters, rubbing her forehead.

She now has an hour to kill, or two, and she’s nowhere near home. There’s nothing really around, unless she wants to hang out in a coffee shop all afternoon, except-

Hmm. That’s an idea.

.-.-.-.

Fifteen minutes later, Clarke pushes through the front door of Johnny’s. It’s exactly the same as she remembers, and after she sits down at the bar, she realizes she’s sitting in exactly the same stool she did the first time.

There’s a man behind the bar Clarke doesn’t know, and he walks over, dropping a menu in front of her.

“I’ll just get a pint of whatever IPA you have on tap,” she says, pushing the menu back at him. He takes it, returning with a pint glass of something frothy and cold.

She’s on her second when the bartender looks up, greeting whoever just walked in.

“Hey man.”

“Hey.”

Clarke recognizes that voice, and swivels just in time to see the door falling shut behind Bellamy.

“Hi,” she says. He blinks.

“Hey,” he repeats. “What are you doing here?”

She holds up the nearly empty glass.

“Drinking.”

 “I see that,” he says, glancing up at the clock above the bar. “Bad day?”

Feeling a little defensive, Clarke hums noncommittally. Instead of walking around the bar, or disappearing into the back room, Bellamy sits down beside her.

“You working tonight?”

He shakes his head.

“Just picking up my paycheck. So, what happened?” he asks, drumming his finger against the bar. They’re long fingers, Clarke notices. Strong looking.

“Some asshole gave me a parking ticket for no reason. And then my car wouldn’t start, and I’m going to have to wait an hour for a tow, so I’m waiting here.” She drains the last of her beer. He watches that with interest.

“I can get Miller to take care of the parking ticket.”

She looks at him in surprise.

“Thanks, that would be great,” she admits gratefully.

They sit in silence for a while, Clarke wondering if he’ll judge her for ordering another drink. After a couple minutes, he reaches over the bar, pouring her another beer. When he sets it down in front her, she eyes him warily.

“You looked like you wanted another,” he says. She did, but for some reason, she’s not sure she wants to give him the satisfaction of being right. Her hands hover awkwardly in her lap. Before she can decide whether to drink it or not, her phone rings.

“Clarke Griffin.” Bellamy raises his eyebrows at the formal greeting, but she ignores him.

“Hey, this is Ricky. Reyes said you needed a tow, I’m like five minutes away from your location.”

“Oh.” Clarke jumps out of her seat, nestling her phone in the crook of her shoulder as she digs in her purse for her wallet. “Awesome, thank you. I can be there in ten minutes, it’s the white Impreza, license plate ARK 100.”

She hangs up, and feels a hand on her arm.

“Hey, free drinks, remember?”

She opens her mouth to protest, but decides she doesn’t have time.

“Tip,” she informs him, throwing a five down on the bar. His lips twitch.

“Are you going to the garage, or do you want a ride home?”

The offer reminds her of the first time they met, and she swallows a smile.

“I really wouldn’t mind a ride.”

He nods.

“Okay, just let me grab my cheque and I’ll drive you to your car.”

Clarke waits there for him to come back, trying to shake off the overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

 .-.-.-.

According to Ricky, Clarke’s problem is her alternator. She doesn’t know what that means, but she knows it will cost her fifteen hundred dollars to fix, and that she should be able to pick up her car before the end of the day tomorrow.

“So, do you want to talk about it?”

Clarke glances over at Bellamy, appreciating his profile. She’d taken up charcoal sketching in college, as a way to vent after a long day of pre-med classes, but she hasn’t done it in ages. Suddenly, she’s inspired to pick it up again.

“About what?” she asks.

“Whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Does it ever strike you as odd,” she wants to know, “that for two people who don’t each other at all, we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well?”

His face crumples in confusion at the question.

“If I knew what the hell that meant, I might.”

She blows out a tired breath.

“Never mind.”

They pull up in front of her building, Clarke managing to unbuckle her own seatbelt this time.

“Thanks,” she says.

“No problem.”

Instead of getting out of the car, she finds herself fiddling with the door handle, torn.

“I lost a patient.” Her voice wavers, the emotion from earlier pushing back up to the surface.

“Oh,” he murmurs.

“He was twelve, and he came in with half a tree sticking out of his chest, and I knew it was bad but I thought-” her voice breaks, and she feels a set of long fingers lacing between hers. “I thought I could save him. I told his mother I would do every thing I could. But it wasn’t enough.”

The first tear falls, and like a switch flipping, she’s suddenly sobbing. Vaguely, Clarke hears the sound of a car door closing, and then hers is suddenly opening, and strong arms are pulling her out, circling around her. She presses her face into Bellamy’s chest.

“His name was Jake,” she hiccups into his shirt. “And my d-dad…he-”

“Your dad’s name was Jake,” Bellamy finishes, tightening his grip on her. She nods. They’re in the middle of the sidewalk, rush hour traffic creeping along beside them, but Clarke doesn’t care. She loses track of how long she stands there, crying, and Bellamy just lets her. Eventually, she pulls back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, not meeting his gaze. He puts his finger under her chin, tilting her face up.

“Don’t be.” The way he’s looking at her then, concern and a fondness that surprises her, sends a wave of longing through her. But it’s been a really bad day, and she’s just spent ten minutes crying on his shirt. So she forces a smile, and hikes her bag higher onto her shoulder.

 “I’m going to…” she tilts her head toward her building. He nods.

“Sure. Try not to let yourself get too in your head,” he says.

“Yeah.” Clarke turns her keys over in her hand. “I’m not making any promises.”

She waves, and hears the rattle of his truck pull away before she reaches the top of her stairs. When she gets into her apartment, her phone vibrates in her back pocket. She pulls it out, frowning when she doesn’t recognize the number. It’s a text.

_In case you ever have a bad day and want to talk. It’s not as fun as drinking, but the hangover usually isn’t as bad._

_-Bellamy_

It’s the first contact they’ve ever had that was on purpose, Clarke realizes. Turning down the hallway, she digs through her closet until she finds what she’s looking for. The box of charcoals is exactly where she left it.


	8. Chapter 8

 “By all means, take your time. It’s not like we have a movie to get to or anything,” Clarke mutters, watching her companion dig through the couch.

“I need my wallet. It’s here somewhere,” Bellamy replies, voice muffled into the cushions.

“I’ll pay.”

“No, you won’t pay. You’re not allowed to pay for anything ever again, remember? Besides, I need my drivers license.”

“I’ll drive.”

He finally pulls his head out from under the coffee table, and glares at her.

“Clarke.”

“Bellamy,” she whines, “we’re going to be late.”

Rolling his eyes, he stands up, scratching the back of his neck.

“You could help me look, you know.” His voice is mild but his eyebrows are drawn together. With a mighty sigh, Clarke turns to the closest piece of furniture, a beat up night stand that he uses as a hallway table, and tugs open the drawer.

“For fucks sake.” She holds up the brown leather wallet, and Bellamy glances over at her, face coloring.

“Oh,” he says. Clarke throws it at him.

In the end they’re only five minutes late, but Clarke harasses him about the trailers they missed all the way to Johnny’s.

“You can watch them all on online anyways,” he mutters, as they push through the front door. “Now would you let this go?”

Raven looks up as they approach, shaking her head.

“You made her miss the previews again, didn’t you?”

Bellamy scowls.

“They’re all on YouTube! I don’t see how this is such a big deal!”

“Not the _theatrical_ versions,” Clarke says, just because she knows it will push his buttons. Not one to disappoint, he groans, dropping his head into his hands. Just then, Miller and Wick arrive, dropping onto the seats on either side of Raven.

“Monty’s not here yet?” Miller asks, voice indifferent. Clarke bites her lip. Ever since her and Bellamy started hanging out a couple months ago, she’s noticed that his old roommate seems to perk up every time the paramedic comes around. They’ve all been going out as a group for the past couple weekends, and Clarke’s beginning to suspect Miller’s interest isn’t one sided. Raven and Wick haven’t been much better, spending half of their time insulting one another, and the other half checking each other out.

Apparently their group has a problem with follow through. Not that Clarke would know anything about that.

She spends more time with Bellamy these days than she does without. Aside from work, and sleeping, they’re together almost all the time. It first started when she took him up on his offer, calling him after a particularly long surgery that had turned into an emergency amputation. He talked her down off the ledge, she gave him some advice about handling Octavia’s new boyfriend, and by the time they hung up they had finally crossed the line between acquaintances and friends.

A few weeks ago, Raven asked her what they do in all the time they spend together. Clarke had shrugged.

_“We just…hang out. It’s nice to have someone around, you know?”_

The truth is that sometimes they don’t even talk, just sit around in silence, Bellamy at his desk working on his research and sending out teaching applications, Clarke laying on his couch watching TV. She’s always needed alone time after getting home from the hospital, time to decompress. But these days she finds more peace in being with him, whatever they’re doing.

And so maybe she’s in love with him. But the idea of losing what they have, and the comfort that he brings her, it terrifies her. Enough to convince her she should keep her feelings to herself. Besides, Bellamy is one of the most straightforward people she knows. If he felt the same way, he would have said something by now. After the weirdness of their initial introduction, and the couple sporadic meetings after that, their friendship had solidified firmly into a platonic one.

 “No,” Clarke announces, coming back to their current conversation. “Monty’s going to be late tonight, he had a union thing.”

Miller’s face falls, infinitesimally, and Clarke suspects she’s the only one who sees it.

“Lincoln’s coming later too,” Octavia adds, and Clarke feels Bellamy tense beside her. She squeezes his knee, a warning.

“Be nice,” she whispers, leaning in so his sister can’t hear.

“I’m always nice,” he replies, and Clarke snorts so hard the rest of the table turns to look at her.

But he is nice when Lincoln arrives, or, he’s civil, which is the best they can really hope for, and their Saturday night passes with the same happy ease as the past few. She’s built a family here, Clarke realizes. A wildly incestuous, slightly alcoholic one, but a family nonetheless.

When Monty shows up, Clark pokes Bellamy.

“Move,” she mutters. He just frowns at her, then goes back to his conversation with Miller. Clarke pulls up another chair beside her, and then pokes him again. “Bellamy, come sit here.” Her voice is low enough that only he can hear her.

“What’s your problem?” he asks, even as he gets up and then drops himself in the seat that she offered. She just looks pointedly at Monty, who slides into his now vacant seat beside Miller, and they both watch as the cop’s face changes from surly to content. This seems to come as a surprise to Bellamy.

Later, when they’re back in Clarke’s apartment, the clock reminding them that daylight is only a few hours away, Bellamy rolls over on the couch, eyes boring into the side of her head.

“What?” she asks, without looking up from her spot on the floor. Her own eyes are glued to the TV, a re-run of some 90’s cartoon she’d never heard of before tonight. The animation is terrible, and some of the lines are almost obscenely racist, but for some reason her drunk brain is eating it up.

“Are Miller and Monty a thing?”

She shrugs.

“I don’t know. Monty’s pretty private.” Not for lack of trying, Clarke has been springing that question on her friend for weeks now, hoping to catch him by surprise and get some answers. That’s the problem with emergency responders, they think too well on their feet.

“I’ve known Miller for six years.”

She doesn’t say anything, knowing he’ll eventually get to the point if she just lets him talk. Onscreen, a goldfish with buckteeth and slanted eyes begins to tell Clarke about the wonders of the Orient. She frowns.

“He used to bring girls home. I don’t ever remember him bringing home a guy.”

At that, Clarke turns her attention away from the TV, eyes settling on Bellamy’s face.

“Okay.”

He rubs his face tiredly.

“How could I not know my roommate was gay?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, turning back to the cartoon.

“Well, maybe he’s not.”

“But you saw that tonight, Monty-”

“Maybe Miller’s just good at keeping secrets, he is a cop. Or maybe he’s bi. Maybe he’s just as confused about it as you are,” muses Clarke, wincing when the oriental goldfish is struck down by a narwhal with an afro. “God. I can’t believe this aired _after_ the challenger exploded. It’s like bad World War Two propaganda.”

 When Bellamy doesn’t reply, she glances back at him. The creases etched into his forehead tell her there’s something else on his mind.

“What now?”

He blinks.

“Nothing.”

Clarke sighs, getting up and dropping onto the couch, directly on top of his legs.

“Bellamy.”

He looks at her for a moment, searching her face.

“Why didn’t he tell me? Am I not…did he think I would care?” The guilt in his voice sends a wave of affection through her chest.

“Hey.” She catches his face in her hands. “I’m sure that’s not it. It probably didn’t have anything to do with you.” His skin is warm under her fingers, and she can’t help but trace the constellations of his freckles. “And as for what’s going on with Monty, I’m sure he’ll tell you in his own time.”

Bellamy nods, and she drops her hands, but she doesn’t move from his lap. For the hundredth time she wonders if she should just tell him how she feels about him. Suddenly, his eyes go wide in horror, staring past her.

“A seahorse with a Hitler stache just killed that narwhal,” he says incredulously. Clarke shakes her head.

“You crashing here?” He sometimes does, when it’s late like this, just sleeps on the couch if he’s too lazy to go home.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes still fixed on the TV. She knows that look. He’ll be lost in the program until it’s over.

“Alright.” She gets to her feet. “Don’t stay up too all night.”

 “But _mom-_ ”

She whacks him with a pillow.

“Night,” Clarke mumbles, forcing herself to move.

As she retreats to her bedroom for the night, she hears him sigh.

“Goodnight.”

.-.-.-.-.

“I’m going to tell him.”

Raven looks up from her phone, mouth hanging open as she registers Clarke’s words.

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

The brunette’s surprise turns to glee, and she claps her hands together.

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

Clarke shrugs, shoving a piece of blueberry muffin into her mouth, chewing as she watches the other customers mill about the tiny café.

“I don’t know, nothing dramatic. He crashed at my place last night, and I was lying in bed thinking ‘I really wish he wasn’t sleeping on the couch right now.’”

“Mhmm,” Raven hums, squinting at her. “So this doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that his ex is back in town?”

“Well,” Clarke bites her lip. “Maybe a little.”

Her friend just chuckles, reaching over to steal the rest of Clarke’s muffin.

“Whatever. As long as you tell him.”

It never occurs to Clarke that she might not get the chance.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly, it turns out I skipped a chapter when posting! This is a REALLY important one so please read it before chapter 9! I'm sorry for the mistake.

Clarke is in the cafeteria, forcing herself to eat half a turkey sandwich when it happens.

“Slow day today,” one of her interns, Charlotte, remarks from the table behind her. Clarke groans, and begins shoveling the rest of her lunch into her mouth while she still has time. Before she can even finish the last bite of turkey, the sound of sirens, a lot of them, begins to pick up in the distance.

“Damn it,” she mutters. Throwing down what’s left of her food, she turns to the table behind her, where four of her interns are huddled, caught up in their own conversations. She clears her throat, and they all look up, apparently surprised to see her.

“Well?” she asks, and they all scramble to their feet. As they make their way to the loading bay, Clarke catches Charlotte by the shoulder. “Never,” she says quietly, barely trying to mask her annoyance, “say those three words again.”

Charlotte gazes up at her, eyes wide, but nods.

The first wave has already arrived by the time they make it to the ER.

Red and white lights flash through the glass doors, illuminating the room in a chaotic strobe. The first two patients roll through, and Nyko and Jackson leap forward, beginning their assessments. When the second ambo pulls up, Monty jumps out, unloading a girl who seems to be bleeding profusely from the abdomen.

“What the hell happened?” Clarke asks him, jogging over to the stretcher and scanning the patient. He swipes at his forehead with the back of his hand.

“There was a shooting, I don’t know where, we found her walking down the street like this, down by Broadway and 2nd, and she just collapsed. It looks like two gunshot wounds, one to the upper left quadrant, one in her left hip. She’s a Jane Doe.”

“Okay,” Clarke glances down at her, the girls eyes wide and blank. It doesn’t look good. “Indra!” She waves her most capable intern over. “I want you to pack this in with gauze, try to stop the bleeding, call up to Amber and tell her to prep an OR-”

 A third ambulance pulls up, and the back doors open to reveal a paramedic Clarke recognizes as Maya, Jasper’s girlfriend. She’s about to turn her attention back to her own patient, when her eyes fall on the occupant of the incoming stretcher. She sucks in a breath.

“Monty-” But it’s too late, his gaze follows hers, face going ashen as he sees what she does. He moves to go over there, but she reaches out, grabbing him. “No, you can’t work on him-”

“Clarke-”

“I know, but you won’t be able to focus-”

“Clarke, please-” He stares over at her, eyes huge, panicking. She makes a decision.

“Okay, you stay with her, _Monty_ , stay with her, and tell Dr. Singh there’s an OR waiting. I’ll take care of Miller.”

He doesn’t move.

“I-he…”

She squeezes his arm, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead as she turns toward Maya and Miller.

“I _know_. I’ll have someone update you every five minutes, okay? Now go.”

This time he does, and Clarke sprints to the other paramedic, hands fluttering around Miller’s face, not liking the way it’s gone gray.

“What’s his status?”

Maya rattles off a couple injuries that make Clarke’s heart sink, and she yells at her other interns, and soon she’s in an OR, cracking the chest of someone she considers a friend, family.

She wouldn’t normally be doing this, it violates a number of hospital rules, but she promised Monty.

“Ten blade,” she says, holding out her hand. And then all there is is her and her patient.

.-.-.-.-.

“No.” She stares down at the chest cavity in front of her, hissing as it fills with blood once again. “Damnit, Miller. Suction!”

A tube comes down, and the blood clears a bit so she can see what she’s doing, but there’s a lot of it. Three gunshot wounds to the chest, effectively shredding his aorta. It would have been a tough save under normal conditions, but it took them almost ten minutes of Clarke screaming at the anesthesiologist before they could convince him to come back on shift for another surgery. Ten minutes they didn’t have.

She manages to repair more of his arterial wall than she’d expected, but still. It’s not much.

Indra, whose first surgery finished an hour ago, suddenly speaks up.

“He’s tachycardic.”

Clarke glances up at the monitor.

“Shit.”

And then-

“VFib,” Indra shouts, just before the monitor starts to scream an alarm.

“Damn! Defibrillator,” Clarke holds out her hand, and someone places the long, narrow paddles in it. “Charge to three fifty. Clear!”

She presses the nodules of the device directly against his heart, and it stutters as the shock goes through it. There’s silence as they wait, but his rhythm doesn’t change.

“Again. Four fifty.” She hears the whine of the machine, and puts the paddles back in place. “Clear!”

Again, they wait. And again there’s no change.

“Miller, don’t you do this to me,” she hisses, “come on, come-”

“Dr. Griffin.” Clarke feels a hand on her shoulder, and recognizes the voice as Jackson, the Chief of Surgery, and her boss. By now he’s heard that she has a personal relationship with her patient. She’s probably in trouble, she realizes, but at the moment she couldn’t care less.

“Jackson, one more-”

“Clarke.” She doesn’t look at him. Then she hears him sigh. “Fine. One more time.”

Her team jumps back into action, charging the defibrillator, and taking a deep breath, Clarke shocks Miller one more time.

Her ears are ringing with adrenaline, so she doesn’t hear it at first. But then-

“Sinus. We have sinus!” It’s Monroe who says it, one of the scrub nurses standing in the back. Clarke sags in relief.

“Oh,” she sighs. “Thank god.”

The hand on her shoulder squeezes, and Jackson leans in.

‘I’ll close up here. There’s a paramedic outside who’s been here for eight hours. I think he might like an update.”

She nods, stepping away from the table. Eight hours. Has it been that long?

As she pulls off her gown and gloves, it occurs to her that while she’s been in her OR, where time tends to stop, Monty has spend the last eight hours with nothing but his thoughts. Her pace quickens, and by the time she pushes through the swinging doors to the waiting room, she’s running.

He looks up the second he hears the doors, and Clarke wonders if he’s done that every single time.

“He’s okay,” she says, because it’s the quickest way she can think of to end his suffering.

“Ah,” he mumbles, a noise halfway between a whimper and a grunt, and then he falls into her arms. Her hand strokes his back until the shaking stops.

“He’s going to be okay,” she repeats softly. Monty just hugs her harder. When he finally pulls away, she sees the red rims around his eyes. “So you two, huh?”

He lets out a shaky laugh, pushing his messy hair out of his face.

“What makes you say that?”

She smacks him, smiling.

“They’ll probably be another twenty minutes or so, but I’m sure Jackson will let you see him when they’ve got him in his room.”

He’s still in his uniform, she notices. He obviously hasn’t gone home.

“I was going to go home and grab a shower,” she tells him. “Want me to pick you up a change of clothes?”

He nods gratefully.

“That would be great. And…uh, Miller has some pajamas, in the second drawer-”

Clarke chuckles.

“Okay. I’ll get those too.”

Clearly, their relationship had progressed further than she’d thought.

“Thank you.” By the look in his eye, Clarke can tell he’s thanking her for more than the change of clothes.

“Hey,” she puts her hand on his shoulder. “You’re family. And so is he.”

Monty nods. Giving him a last kiss on the cheek, Clarke heads for her locker.

When she turns on her phone to check her messages, she stops short.

She has twenty-seven missed calls.

Eleven are from Octavia. Nine are from Raven. There are two each from Jasper, Wick, and her upstairs neighbour, Lexa. There’s even one from her mother.

Twenty-seven missed calls. They _could_ be about Miller.

But none of them are from Bellamy.

The only ones who left voicemails were Raven and Octavia, both of whom regularly bash the medium for being outdated and inconvenient. With a sweaty palm, Clarke holds her phone to her ear.

_Hey, have you heard from Bell? Everyone’s been trying to call him about Miller but he’s not picking up. Call me back._

_(Beep)_

_Clarke, was Bellamy working today? I guess you’re probably in surgery or something, but Octavia’s freaking out, and-just call me when you get a sec._

_(Beep)_

_It was Johnny’s. The shooting, it-no one can get a hold of Bellamy, and he wasn’t supposed to work today, but... Goddamnit, Griffin. Do you know where my brother is? Fucking call me back._

_(Beep)_

Clarke lets her hand fall to her side, forcing herself to take a deep breath. Octavia was right, he wasn’t supposed to work today. If Miller was at Johnny’s when he was shot, that would explain why he wasn’t wearing a vest. But the only reason Miller would have to be at Johnny’s if he was off duty, is if Bellamy was going to be there.

Feeling sick, she punches at her phone screen, holding it back up to her ear. She knows exactly what she’s going to hear on the other end. It rings, and rings, then cuts to voicemail.

_Hey, this is Bellamy, leave a message._

Chewing anxiously on her bottom lip, Clarke calls the other Blake.

“Hello?” Octavia picks up before the first ring can finish.

“It’s me.” Clarke’s voice is even raspier than usual, and she clears her throat. “Did you find him?” She thinks she already knows the answer to that question, because Bellamy would have called her if they had. He wouldn’t want her to worry. He’s responsible like that.

“No. When you called I thought-” She doesn’t have to finish the thought. She’d assumed Bellamy had ended up here, at the hospital. “They didn’t find him at Johnny’s, they searched the whole bar.”

“Alright. I just got out of surgery, I was in there for eight hours, I don’t know…” Clarke trails off. Octavia’s brother could very well have come through while she was operating on Miller. She wouldn’t know. “I’ll ask around and call you back, okay?”

“Okay.”

She hangs up, ripping off her scrubs and changing into the yoga pants and hoodie she keeps in her locker.

Ten minutes later she’s at Admitting and Discharge.

“Amber, I need a list of every patient who’s come in to the ER since ten this morning.”

The nurse looks at her, puzzled, but grabs a tablet and swipes through a few screens, then hands it to Clarke.

Her eyes scan the names, double checks it, reads it a third time. No Bellamys, no Blakes. Two John Does. One was DOA, the other has been moved to the ICU. She checks the room number, then hands the tablet back.

“Thanks.”

.-.-.-.-.

It’s not him.

She even calls back down to Admitting to double check the room number. But it’s not him.

Technically, nothing is wrong yet. They can’t get a hold of Bellamy, but he wasn’t supposed to work today anyways. The cops arrested the shooter, and swept the bar, and everyone who was there is now accounted for. And he’s not here, Clarke is sure. She’s called around to all three other trauma centers in the area, and they don’t have any patients matching his description. He’s just…missing.

She calls Octavia back.

“He’s not here. He hasn’t been here. I don’t think he’s in any of the other hospitals either.”

On the other end, her friend sighs wearily.

“Alright, thanks for checking. Is Miller okay?”

“Yeah. He will be. I’m going to pick up some clothes for him and Monty, do you want me to come by after?”

“No, it’s fine. Lincoln’s here.” Of course. “How’s Monty?”

So Clarke wasn’t the only one who knew.

“He’s better now. I’ve got to go. Call me if you hear anything.”

“I will.”

And then Clarke is left alone, with nothing but her thoughts and a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Important Please READ**
> 
> A chapter got missed when I was posting them (I uploaded them all at once as drafts). I highly recommend going back to chapter 7/8 and making sure you've read all the chapters from there to this one as they're now posted. It's a really important chapter plot-wise, and this one won't make sense if you made it here before I added that chapter.
> 
> -
> 
> Okay, so this is the last update before the final chapter, which will be up tomorrow night after the new episode. I really hope you guys are enjoying this, and thanks for the feedback so far!

It’s dark by the time she gets back to her apartment, just after eight. She’s exhausted, and her mind is running over every possible explanation for Bellamy’s absence. There’s no good reason to assume the worst, except-

Well. She’s Clarke Griffin. That’s probably reason enough.

She slides the key into her front door, and turns it, then tugs on the handle. It doesn’t open. Frowning, she stares at the key in her hand. She’s just locked the door. Which means that when she got here, it was unlocked.

After unlocking it, properly, she pushes the door open. Her apartment is dark, quiet, and by the light filtering in from the other high-rises outside, nothing looks out of place. When she pushes the door shut, her fingers stick slightly to the wood. Clarke turns on the light, and what she sees has her keys clattering to the floor.

Her fingers are stained red, the inside of the door smeared with half-dried bloody hand prints. A trail of red, like drag marks behind a body, disappear around the corner into the hallway.

And she just knows. She sprints for the bathroom, flinging the light on, and clapping a bloody hand to her mouth when it flickers on.

Bellamy is laying on the floor, a pool of blood collecting beneath him, seeping along the grout lines. He’s sheet white, curled halfway into fetal position, one hand resting on his stomach, where a small mountain of her gauze packs have been heaped, black with blood.

“Oh my god.”

She has to crawl under the sink to reach him, heart smashing against her ribs, and she presses two fingers to his neck.

Time stops, blood roaring in her ears as she waits. And then-

A pulse. One of the weakest she’s ever felt. But it’s there.

“Bellamy,” his name escapes as a sob, and Clarke is dialing 911 even as she peels away the layers of sodden flannel and gauze sticking to his abdomen. A gunshot wound stares back at her, thick with a mixture of fresh and congealed blood. She wonders how long he’s been here. When dispatch picks up, she rattles off her name and address, Bellamy’s condition. After hanging up, she grabs new gauze and packs it into the wound, pressing as hard as she dares, afraid to hurt him. He doesn’t stir.

“You can’t do this,” she hiccups, vision blurring with tears. “You’ve got to-you can’t die, okay, because I lost Wells, and I lost my dad, and if you leave me I won’t make it.” One of her hands slips down to lace with his, the other still pressing firmly on the dressing.

“I should probably tell you that Octavia needs you, and that you should pull through for her. Because I’m just some girl who came into your bar, someone you took pity on. I’m nobody. I know that. But-” Her voice breaks, the panic threatening to shut her down. “But you’re everything to me, okay? You made feel whole again, and you know better than anyone that people just take these big chunks of you with them when they die, and if you die too, there won’t be anything left.”

Suddenly, he spasms, eyes flying open, wild, body jerking in her arms.

“Wh-”

He thrashes a bit, and Clarke starts to wonder if he’s having a seizure, but then she sees the muscle working in his jaw, the veins in his neck. He’s in pain.

“Shh,” she fights to even out her voice, trying not to let the agony in his eyes pull her in. “Bellamy, they’re coming, okay, try to stay still.”

“Cla-” When he opens his mouth to speak, blood comes out. Swallowing the wail in her throat, she smooths a hand over his forehead.

“Shh, don’t try to talk. I’m right here.” She shifts his head into her lap, and he stills. She’s so wrapped up her relief, that at first she doesn’t notice that his chest isn’t moving at all. “Wait. No. No, no no, no…” She presses her fingers back to his neck, but there’s nothing. “Bellamy, no-”

Her strangled sobs are cut off by the sound of her front door bursting open, and suddenly there are other people there, in her bathroom, pulling her off of him.

“No, he-” She claws at the arms dragging her out of the room. “Stop!”

“You’ve got to let them work ma’am, come on.”

She doesn’t recognize any of the faces as they take Bellamy away on a stretcher. But they don’t try to stop her when she climbs into the back of the ambulance with them.

“Take him to New York-Presbyterian,” she says dully, sliding her hand back into his.

When they arrive, Clarke goes as far as she can, shouting in outrage when they stop her at the swinging doors of the OR.

“You can’t go back there,” the paramedic tells her, physically holding her back.

“I’m a doctor,” she spits, all but crawling over him in her effort to follow the stretcher. He doesn’t budge.

“I get that, but you can’t-”

“Clarke?”

She swivels, coming face to face with Jackson. His eyes widen at the sight of her, and she can only imagine how she looks, Bellamy’s blood soaking her sweater, probably smeared across her face. Her hands are caked in it, too, and she knows how hard blood is to get out from under your fingernails.

“He’s my friend,” she says desperately. “Jackson, please-”

“The Miller kid?” His face wrinkles in confusion.

“No, his name is Bellamy, they won’t let me back there, I can’t operate on him, _please-_ ” She’s begging him, her boss, tears running down her face and mixing with the blood in her hair to stain the blonde pink. “I need you to do it.”

Jackson takes one hard look at her, and then nods.

“Okay. _Stay here_.” It’s a direct order, she recognizes that tone, and she swipes at the tears on her chin, nodding. Then he’s gone.

One of the paramedics who brought them in leads her over to a chair, looking uncomfortable.

“Do you want me to call someone?”

Octavia. She needs to know. But Clarke shakes her head.

“I’ll do it.”

She does, dialing the number as the panic in her stomach begins to dissolve into something dark and hollow. Octavia doesn’t even greet her this time.

“Have you heard-”

“He’s here. At the hospital.”

“What? Do you know-”

“You just need to come down here, now.” Clarke wishes she had the strength to comfort her friend. But she doesn’t. She feels fragile, and empty. She hangs up.

A few minutes later, she hears the paramedics talking.

“-heard he was there for like _nine hours_ -”

“-they’re going to need a miracle to save him-”

Then they catch her looking, and fall silent, flushing.

It occurs to Clarke that she probably only gets one miracle a day, and she’s used hers on Miller. Hating herself, she wishes for the briefest of seconds that she hadn’t.

.-.-.-.-.

Some time later, Octavia arrives, Lincoln in tow. Her eyes are full of questions, and then she takes one look at Clarke, and she doesn’t have to ask any of them.

“I don’t know,” Clarke rasps jaggedly, even though the brunette hasn’t said a word. She drops her head into her hands. “I don’t know.”

.-.-.-.-.

Then Raven shows up. It’s almost midnight, they’ve been sitting in the waiting room for hours, but Clarke forgot to call her. She comes bursting in, sees the threesome sitting silently against the wall, then disappears, returning with coffee. She doesn’t say anything either, just sits down next to Clarke, who leans into her, closing her eyes.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell him,” she says, in a small voice.

“You will.”

.-.-.-.-.

Monty runs into them purely by coincidence, on his way to get something to eat while Miller is still out. He stops in the middle of the hallway, staring at them in confusion.

“Are you looking for Miller?” he asks, eyes darting warily across their wretched faces.

“Bellamy,” Clarke says. It only takes a second, and then he gets it. Suddenly, Clarke remembers something. “I didn’t get the pajamas. Sorry. I just-””

“Clarke-” Monty interrupts her softly, shaking his head. “It’s okay.”

But it’s not. Nothing is.

.-.-.-.-.

After five hours, a nurse appears, catching sight of Clarke and walking over to the group.

She sits bolt upright in her chair. If the surgery was over, Jackson would be here.

“What is it?”

The woman takes a deep breath, like she’s steadying herself.

“I just-” She holds out a clipboard. Clarke stares at her. “I need you to fill these out.”

“Right,” she says, her voice sound strange to her own ears. She takes the clipboard, and the nurse walks away. From a few seats over, Octavia holds out her hand.

“That’s probably for me.”

Clarke nods numbly, handing it over. Her mind flashes back to when Bellamy was the one sitting in this chair, waiting for his sister.

When she’s done, Octavia stands up to walk the forms back over to the nurse. Clarke shakes her head, taking back the clipboard.

“I’ll do it.”

As far as she knows, they still don’t have insurance. When she tells that to Amber, the receptionist barely bats an eye.

“I’ll take care of it,” she says, and Clarke can barely manage to mumble a weary thank you before stumbling back to her seat. She’s now been up for over twenty-four hours. Raven suggests that she take a nap, but every time she closes her eyes, she sees him.

“If you’re not going to sleep,” Raven decides, pulling her back to her feet half an hour later, “Then we should at least get you cleaned up.”

Clarke looks down. She’d forgotten what she looks like. No wonder all her friends had fallen silent at the sight of her.

She follows Raven to the bathroom, where she tugs off her sweater and washes her hands, arms, face. She tries to wash the blood out of her hair, too, but the red stain stays. Raven runs to her locker and brings back a clean pair of scrubs, the only other clothes Clarke has.

When they get back to the waiting room, nothing has changed.

At around one, Raven ducks out. She gets clothes for Monty and Clarke, and Miller’s pajamas. Clarke ties her hair back into a messy bun, tired of looking at the pink tips on her curls.

Just before two, Octavia switches seats with Lincoln so she can talk to Clarke.

“What happened?”

Clarke suspects the girl has held out as long as she can. She scrubs a hand across her face and takes a deep breath, trying to tell the story without picturing it.

“When I got home, the door to my apartment was unlocked. When I got inside and turned on the light there was…” she pinches her nose, fighting off the wave of nausea that has nothing to do with the blood and everything to do with the person it came from. “Blood. A lot of it. I followed it to the bathroom, and he was there. He was unconscious, he’d tried to put some gauze on it but he must have passed out. I don’t know how long he’d been there.”

She glances at Octavia’s face, but it’s steady.

“I called the ambulance, and while we were waiting for it he woke up for a minute and then he-” she breaks off. He died. When the ambulance got there, Bellamy had been dead.

But Jackson would have come out hours ago if that was still the case. You don’t operate for five hours on a dead man.

“Jackson is the best surgeon here,” she finally manages. “And the fact that they’re still in there is a good sign.”

They sit in silence for a little while longer.

“Kind of ironic, huh?”

Clarke looks over at her.

“What?”

“Well, this is where you guys met, right?”

Clarke blinks, then, slowly, shakes her head.

“Actually, I met your brother first. When I found out Finn was cheating on me I went to Johnny’s and got drunk, and Bellamy drove me home. The day you had your accident was the second time we met.”

Octavia stares at her for a second, and Clarke begins to wonder if the sleep deprivation is getting to her.

“You’re the girl?” she asks. When Clarke doesn’t respond, she clarifies. “You’re the girl from the bar?”

“He told you about that?” It doesn’t make sense, Clarke was so sure he hadn’t. She assumed he’d kept all their first encounters secret, because they didn’t really paint either of them in a positive light. Octavia sighs, leaning back in her chair.

“That makes _so_ much sense.”

Clarke is about to ask her what she means when the doors swing open again, and this time it’s Jackson. She’s on her feet, halfway over to him, before she even realizes she’s moved.

“It’s over?” Even she can hear the weight in her own words. He glances behind her at Octavia.

“You’re the sister?” She nods.

“He pulled through.”

Clarke stumbles backward, her whole body suddenly going limp, and Raven catches her. Beside her, Lincoln does the same for Octavia.

“He is very, very lucky. He’s going to be okay. I’ve never seen anything like this, it was-”

“A miracle,” Clarke mumbles. Jackson looks at her, then nods.

“Pretty much.”

She doesn’t hear anything after that, just collapses into the nearest chair and waits until they’ve moved Bellamy into a private room, at which point Raven has to help her stagger into it.

He’s still pale, shockingly so, but he doesn’t look so much like a corpse anymore. Octavia falls into the chair on one side of his bed, Clarke on the other.

The moment she hears him take a firm, deep breath, she drops her head onto the bed beside his hand, and lets go.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this isn't technically the last chapter. But the last chapter won't end and it's getting to be pretty long so, here. Have this short bit as a sign of good faith. The rest of it should be up within an hour or two.

Clarke is dreaming about dying. She’s sitting at a picnic table, overlooking the park, watching her father and Wells play Frisbee like they did when she was a kid.

She knows it’s not real. Wells hasn’t aged a day, still the fresh faced sixteen year-old he was the last time she saw him, and she finds herself wondering sadly what he would have looked like if he’d lived. Would he have grown a beard? Inherited the deep baritone his father so often employed in political speeches? Would he have liked the person she’s become?

The last question sticks in her mind as her gaze travels over to her father. He stumbles on the grass, then rights himself, laughing as he flings the disc back toward the teenager. He looks happy, and carefree, and everything he wasn’t when he died.

“Hey, baby.” He looks over at her, eyes twinkling.

“Hey dad,” she says softly.

“It’s time to wake up, now,” he tells her. She shakes her head, trying to get up, to close the distance between them.

“No. I want to stay.”

Jake’s eyes turn wistful, but his smile doesn’t falter.

“I wish you could, kiddo. But you’ve got stuff to do.”

Before her, he begins to flicker, like the image on a TV channel with bad reception. She reaches out, but he’s too far away to touch. Behind him, the image of Wells begins to do the same.

“Wait,” she cries, squirming in her seat. Her legs feel like lead. “Don’t go! Dad, I-I love you!”

“I know,” Jake says softly. “But I’m not the one you really want to say that to, am I?”

The fading Wells steps forward, boyish face glowing with contentment. The fault lines in her heart throb, threatening to crack all over again.

“Clarke,” he says, smiling, though his voice comes out tinny and far away. “He’s waking u-”

Clarke jerks awake with a gasp, blinking in the full daylight streaming in through the tiny window.

“Wh-” She rubs her eyes, disoriented. As the room comes into focus, her eyes fall on Bellamy, and the past twenty-four hours come flooding back to her. She jumps to her feet, hands fluttering around his face, itching to get a hold of his chart. His eyes are still closed, but his breathing is even, and the monitors beside his bed are all showing normal stats. Octavia is nowhere to be seen.

She sinks back into the chair, resting her hand on top of his. Her eyes drift shut again, and her mind struggles to hold on to the fleeting image of her lost boys, but they’re quickly seeping away, like water through a crack.

“Bad dream?”

Her eyes fly open. Bellamy is looking over at her sleepily, lids drooping over unfocused eyes.

“Bellamy.” She leans forward, dragging the chair as close to the bed as she can. He blinks up at her, and the emotion rises like a wall in her chest. She didn’t think she would get to see those dark eyes open again.

“Hey, Princess.” He lifts his arm, as though he wants to reach out, then drops it with a groan.

“Careful,” she says, fighting back tears. “You’re going to tear your stitches.”

He frowns, eyes dragging as they flutter shut, then open again.

“Well,” he mumbles, voice rough and stilted with sleep, and probably painkillers. “Wouldn’t want to do that.”

And that’s all it takes.

Clarke crumples forward, face buried in his blankets, and she weeps with a force that’s both alarming and painfully familiar. Through it, she feels his fingers tangle in his hair, the best he can do, and she reaches out blindly until her hand lands on his chest.

“Hey,” the bed vibrates with the timbre of his voice. “If you keep this up you’re going to make me think that I’m dying.”

Instead of making her laugh, that just makes her cry harder. Eventually he sighs, and his own hand presses firmly over hers where it sits on his chest.

“Clarke, stop.” This time he sounds stern, and it’s so like him that she finally does, pulling herself together with a hiccup.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. He rolls his eyes.

“Just don’t let it happen again.”

The giggle pushes out involuntarily, but she finds she feels lighter in it’s wake.

“Do you remember what happened?” she asks. He nods, and Clarke can’t help but notice how exhausted he looks, although that seems only fitting given everything he’s been through.

 “Yeah. Octavia told me. The cops were in here earlier taking my statement.” His lips twitch. “You slept through all of it.”

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Huh. Guess I was tired.” But that’s not the whole truth. Her mind doesn’t deal with trauma well. After her dad died, she slept for a week. After Wells, almost three. Her therapist called it depression, but Clarke thinks her brain was just trying to delay facing the gaping holes in her life as long as possible.

Her eyes flit to the clock on the wall. It’s just after eleven. Belatedly, she realizes her shift started at nine. If she knows Jackson, though, he’ll have taken care of it. Feeling a tug on her scalp, she looks up to see Bellamy pulling on a lock of her hair, frowning. As her gaze follows his, she realizes he’s examining the now pink hue of it.

“You dye your hair?” he wonders. She stares at him.

“No, that’s-” she gestures vaguely at his thickly bandaged abdomen, where she knows the bullet wound is hiding. His eyes widen in shock.

“Oh.”

Throat dry, she pulls his hand away from her hair, trapping it between both of hers.

“Where’s Octavia?”

“I sent her home to get some sleep. She’ll be back later.”

Clarke nods.

“Bellamy…” Now’s her chance to say it. After everything, she knows she’s lucky to even have the chance. But when she opens her mouth, she finds she can’t. “What happened?”

He presses his lips together, eyes still slightly cloudy from whatever they’ve put him on, probably morphine.

“I was meeting Miller at the bar for lunch, and I went into the office before he got there to grab my paycheque.”

Clarke can already feel herself tensing, and Bellamy’s fingers curl around her hand, squeezing.

“I was in there for…I don’t know. Less than five minutes. I heard shots, and screaming, called 911 from the office phone, and when I walked out there was only one guy standing up. Everyone else was on the floor.” His stare is distant, like it’s going through her. “I remember thinking _Man, I hope Miller is running_ late. And then he hit me in the head with the butt of his rifle, and I was laying on the ground, and I saw Miller laying right in front of me, bleeding.”

She knows the feeling. But she doesn’t interrupt.

 “When he heard the sirens he got distracted, and I was trying to drag myself over to Miller, to see if he was alive, and I saw this little girl hiding behind the bar. I don’t know what I was thinking, but-she just reminded me so much of O.”

She doesn’t want to hear this anymore.

“When he wasn’t looking, I told her to run. And then she fell, and I _knew_ he’d heard her, and I stood up and jumped in front of her. That’s when he shot me,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, glancing down at his stomach. “But we both kept running. I was following her, but after a couple blocks I lost her. I knew I was close to your apartment, and you’d given me a key, and-”

Clarke can’t take it anymore.

“Stop.” Her voice shakes, and she tries to close her eyes, to settle her stomach, but she just keeps seeing him laying on her bathroom floor, staining her white tile red. “Bellamy, why didn’t you just ask someone for help? Get them to call an ambulance?”

When she opens her eyes again, he looks a little more focused, watching her in concern.

“I don’t know. I was just kind of on autopilot.”

He’d been in shock, she guesses. But he’d also put his own life in danger because of it.

“You could have died,” she whispers, eyes suddenly studying his face hungrily, like she needs to memorize every inch of it, just in case. “You were there for hours. If I’d gone to Octavia’s, or if I’d just stayed at the hospital with Monty-”

“But you didn’t,” he says, firmly. “You came home, and I’m okay.”

“You weren’t.”

Her words hang in the air between them, heavy.

“You died, right there in my arms, laying on the bathroom floor.”

He blinks.

“What?”

“You woke up, just for a second, and I was trying to tell you-” she breaks off, breathing hard.

He stares at her, eyes suddenly sharp.

“Tell me what?”

Instead of answering, she pushes a stray dark curl out of his face.

“Why’d you have to be a hero, huh?” she asks softly. It’s a rhetorical question, because he wouldn’t be Bellamy if he wasn’t always trying to take care of everyone else, trying to save them. It was how they’d met after all.

His hand shoots out, catching her wrist.

“Clarke. Tell me what?”

She looks at him, trying to force the words out, and after a few seconds go by she realizes she’s holding her breath.

“I love you.” The words tumble messily off her tongue, and she’s not completely sure he even heard her, but she’s done it. She said it.

The silence that falls after that is deafening, even through the hum of the machines surrounding them. And it goes on too long. Long enough to be an answer in itself. She clears her throat.

“Bellamy?”

“Clarke-” But her pager goes off, interrupting him.

“I’ve got to go.” It’s a 911, her shift might have been covered but if they need her, she goes. He’s just staring at her, not saying anything, and the idea of escaping is suddenly incredibly appealing.   

“But we-”

“I’ll come back in a bit,” she assures him, though she’s not entirely she wants to anymore. “I’m sure Octavia wants some family time anyways.”

She turns to go, sparing him a weak smile.

“Clarke-” His voice follows her into the hallway, but she’s already gone.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's done! As you can see this chapter ended up being much, much longer than I'd expected. Hopefully that makes up for it being up slightly later than I'd promised. Anyways. Thank you so much for sticking with me this far, and now that it's all said and done, nothing would make me happier than hearing what you think. <3

“Is he alright?” Miller frowns, which is slightly less intimidating given the Star Wars t-shirt he’s currently wearing. Clarke suspects that might be Monty’s influence, but it amuses her anyway.

“He’s _fine_. How are you? You took three times as many bullets,” she points out. His frown deepens into a scowl as she swipes through his chart, pausing occasionally to poke at various parts of his body. She knows Nyko has been covering for her for the past day or so, but Miller is still technically her patient. When he glares at her, Monty just clears his throat from his seat in the corner, and Miller sighs.

“I feel like shit. I’d be better if you weren’t so goddam fussy. That Nyko guy already checked all my vitals.”

“I’m not _fussing,_ ” Clarke mutters, even though she is, a little. “You’re my patient, so you’re my responsibility. Even if Nyko’s been nice enough to look after you while I was…” She trails off. _While she was a useless wreck of grief._

But she doesn’t feel like admitting that to Miller.

“What?” He blinks. “Are you guys just trading patients so you can hover?”

She rolls her eyes.

“No. You were my patient to begin with. Nyko was just covering for me while I was dealing with Bellamy.”

Monty looks up again, setting down a Cannabis Culture magazine Clarke can’t imagine Miller approves of. 

“Didn’t I tell you? Clarke was the one who operated on you. She saved your life.”

Judging by Miller’s face, this is news to him.

“Oh.” The cop suddenly looks bashful. “Uh, I guess I should thank you then.”

“Don’t get too excited,” Clarke murmurs, adjusting his IV. “I only did it for Monty.”

Miller’s answering chuckle is only a little embarrassed.

By the time she leaves them, Clarke feels a little better, although she can’t help but be envious of the easy intimacy the two men share.

.-.-.-.-.

She doesn’t go home for three days. Eventually Raven catches on, and corners her.

“Enough is enough. I know you want to stay busy, but-”

“It’s not that.” Clarke picks at her cuticle. “I mean, it’s not just that.”

But Raven doesn’t know what she means, and Clarke can’t bring herself to say it out loud, so she goes home.

She knows what to expect. That night is burned into her memory like a scar. She walks into her apartment, turns on the light, and pads softly over to the bathroom. It looks…

Well. It looks like a murder scene.

His blood is everywhere. Black and brown and burgundy cover every white surface, in smears and handprints and pools that have since dried up. She walks over to the toilet, stained with red where Bellamy had probably propped himself against it, and empties the meagre contents of her stomach.

Then she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, opens the cupboard under the sink, and empties a bottle of bleach.

The stains don’t come out.

.-.-.-.-.

Two weeks pass, and Clarke has successfully avoided any discussion of the incident. It’s pretty clear to her that Bellamy doesn’t feel the same way. She’s embarrassed, and more than a little hurt, but the feeling of relief that he’s even still alive is lingering, so she tries to put it behind her.

It turns out that it’s hard to pretend you’re not in love with your best friend, especially after you’ve admitted as much. So she does the only thing she can. She avoids him.

She’s in Miller’s room, grilling him about how many times he’s urinated in the last twelve hours, when Bellamy suddenly appears in the doorway.

His face is slightly gray, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and even as Clarke gapes at him, he sways on the spot.

“What are you _doing_?” she cries, leaping forward to catch him as he tips forward, half dragging him over to the nearest chair.

“I need to talk to you,” he pants. Miller is watching them curiously, probably just glad that the interrogation about his bodily functions has been interrupted.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.” She fights the urge to hit him. The two men currently in the room are some of the worst patients she’s ever had.

“Well, you’re avoiding me. You left me no choice.”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Clarke sighs. “And I’m not avoiding you. I have patients. I can’t just hang out in bed all day like the two of you.”

They both glare at her.

“Do you really want to do this here?” Bellamy finally asks. Clarke glares at him, arms crossed over her chest. Then with a sigh, she holds up a finger.

“Alright, fine. Stay here. I’m going to get you a wheelchair.”

When she comes back, he hasn’t moved, now staring vacantly at Miller. Clarke tries to help Bellamy into the wheelchair, but he just turns to glare at her, so she holds her hands up in surrender as he struggles to do it himself.

Bidding Miller an irritated goodbye, she pushes him out into the hallway.

“This is stupid. I can walk. Isn’t exercise supposed to be good for you?”

Clarke lets out a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl.

“Yeah, you looked almost invigorated right up until you keeled over in the doorway,” she retorts.

“I’m going to tell Jackson it was your fault I’m out of bed.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Oh no. The word of the world’s most difficult patient against his favourite trauma surgeon. I should just go pack up my things right now.”

He apparently doesn’t have an answer for that, and she lets him sulk the rest of the way to his room. When they reach his bed, she reaches down automatically to help him up, but he swats her hand away.

“I can stand on my own, thanks.” The genuine venom in his voice has her doing a double take.

“I…alright.” She doesn’t understand why he’d go to all the trouble of finding her just to be so hostile. Maybe he’s angry that she told him how she feels. Maybe he’s angry at her for ruining what they had.

She crosses her arms, frowning down at him as he struggles to settle back into the bed. When his eyes catch hers again, he flushes and glowers back at her.

“Should I leave?” she wonders, uncomfortable under his angry stare. She hasn’t seen him like this since the morning he accosted her at the apartment, when the hospital sent him that dramatically reduced invoice. It seems like a million years ago, but she feels the same way now as she did then, confused and hurt.

“What? No.” He gapes at the question. “Are you seriously that desperate to run away again? Typical,” he adds with a snort.

It’s her turn to stare.

“What are you talking about?”

He shifts in bed, clutching his stomach with a wince. She leans forward to do something, fluff his pillows, check his bandages, anything to help. But he waves her off again, only to accidentally smack her in the face. It’s barely a tap, it doesn’t even really hurt, but she rears back as though he’d punched her.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” she shouts, hand flying to her face. He looks stricken, mouth dropping open in horror.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

As anger rises in her chest, a mixture of hurt and resentment that’s been building for the past couple weeks, Clarke does something she’s been itching to do since the first time she met Bellamy. She hits him. His remorse turns to shock as he rubs his arm dazedly. Far from apologetic, she plants her hands on her hips, fuming.

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” he mumbles, still apparently in shock that she’d hit him. She rolls her eyes.

“Obviously.” As angry as he gets sometimes, she knows he would never hit a woman. Octavia likes to joke that it’s a deeply sexist notion, but it’s just who he is. And Clarke suspects that he’d rather get shot again than physically hurt her, even if he’s currently glaring at her like she’s his least favorite person on earth.

“What?” His surprise turns right back into anger. “Then what the fuck did you hit _me_ for?”

“Because you’re being an asshole!”

As her voice echoes around the tiny room, Clarke is suddenly glad that the hallway outside seems to be deserted. It probably wouldn’t reflect well on the hospital if anyone saw her insulting and beating her patients. Bellamy watches her take a deep breath, looking indignant. She suddenly doesn’t want to do this. She’s tired, and he’s still pale and clammy from the exertion of walking down the hall. He looks frail, and angry, and Clarke doesn’t want to stand there just so he can glare at her from his hospital bed and tell her he doesn’t feel the same way. Or worse, so he can let her down easy.

She doesn’t want to hear it. So she turns on her heel, making a beeline for the door. He can accuse her of running away all he wants, but she has to start protecting herself at some point. It’s time to start rebuilding some of the walls she’s been letting down.

“Don’t walk away from me!” His voice hits her back like a knife, but she doesn’t turn around. “ _Clarke_.” Her name sounds like a plea, suddenly sad and desperate. She tries to hold out, to ignore it, tells herself the guilt isn’t worth another broken heart.

  “ _What?_ ” she wails jaggedly, spinning around in a whirl of anger and hurt. “Bellamy, _what do you want from me?_ ”

Stunned at the raw emotion on her face, Bellamy recoils.

“I’m-”

“I told you I loved you,” she interrupts, “and you didn’t say it back. When you acted like it never happened, I went along with that. When you said you wanted to talk, I gave you the chance. I have been _trying,_ Bellamy, but I’m tired of getting hurt, and I’m not your punching bag. Just…leave me alone,” she finishes quietly. 

He stares at her. Only the faint ticking of the wall clock breaks the silence in the room

“Is that really what you want?”

 _No_.

She doesn’t say anything. Her mind wanders back to the night of Raven’s birthday, her finger in Finn’s chest.

_You hurt her. You don’t get to keep forcing yourself into her life to make yourself feel better._

Is that what they’ve come to? She doesn’t want to lose him, but she can still see something like resentment in his eyes, and it’s making her chest ache.

“I want things to go back to how they were before,” she decides. It’s not really what she wants, but it’s the next best thing. His face turns cold.

“So you didn’t mean it, then.” It’s not a question. “What you said before.”

She runs a hand over her face, exhausted.

“No, I meant it. But you obviously don’t feel the same way, and it’s not worth ruining a friendship. It’s not worth ruining _us_. You’re family. I don’t want to lose that.” She sinks into the chair beside his bed, all immediate plans to retreat put on hold.

“I do.”

She looks up, confused.

“You do…want to lose that?” she repeats, forehead creasing.

“No, I-” he sighs, frustrated. “I feel the same way. I mean, I…”

“You what?” Clarke prompts nervously, when he trails off.

“I love you.”

Even the air in the room seems to still when he says it. The words echo in her head, repeating over and over until she can’t remember what they mean.

“You love me.” Her voice sounds skeptical, even to her. Bellamy nods, slowly, watching her intently. When she doesn’t say anything else, he starts talking again.

“And I-I know what you said before. But just now, you said you want things to go back to how they were, and if that’s what you want, if you’ve changed your mind, I-”

“Are you going to die?” she asks suddenly.

Startled, he pauses mid-sentence, mouth slightly open. “Because every man I’ve ever said I love you to has died. And I don’t feel like going through that again.”

“Um,” he closes his mouth, then opens it again. “Eventually, probably. But if I was going to go young, don’t you think I would have just croaked two weeks ago?”

She considers this. Then, with newfound heart, she stands up, leaning over him.

“Wh-” His words are cut off as her lips takes his. He’s still salty from overexerting himself, and he feels almost delicate beneath her hands. And then he reaches up, fisting his hand in her hair to yank her closer to him, and there’s nothing delicate about it. Her teeth capture his bottom lip, and his other arm slips around her waist to tug her forward, until she tumbles onto the bed, and him.

He makes a noise halfway between pleasure and pain, and she likes it probably more than she should, but she pulls away.

For a moment all she can see is his eyes, huge and black and mesmerizing. And then she notices the patch of scarlet blooming on his shirt. Trying to even out her breathing, she sighs.

“See, now, I told you that would happen,” she murmurs, a little too breathless to be casual. His gaze follows hers to where his stitches have come open, blood soaking through his shirt. It’s not hard to tell that he’s in pain, but his lips tug into a smirk anyways.

 “Do you always draw blood on the first kiss?” he wonders sarcastically. “I never would have taken you for a biter.”

She stands up, rolling her eyes.

“Alright, take it off.”

His eyebrows shoot up.

“Well, that’s kind of forward, but if you insist-”

“I need to fix your stitches, idiot,” she says, the insult almost embarrassingly fond on her tongue. He blinks.

“Oh.” But he pulls his shirt over his head with a grimace, and she grabs a suture kit out of the drawers beside the wall.

He sits still like a good boy while she peels off his bandages and gives him a quick shot of local anesthetic. He has indeed torn his stitches, and she sighs, pulling them out as gently as she can. Bellamy just makes a garbled noise, and she presses her lips together. She can still taste salt on them.

“So just to clarify,” he says through his teeth, “you haven’t changed your mind?”

Clarke’s eyes flit up to his face, catching him watching her. Instead of answering, she pokes the needle through his skin. He hisses.

“No,” she says mildly, continuing to suture. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Stabbing me with a sharp object is an interesting way to show your affection.” His voice is teasing, but she can see the real question in his eyes. She loops the thread into a knot, and snips off the end. Pulling off her gloves, she cups her hand under his jaw.

“I love you. I love your stupid obsession with obscure ancient Greco-Roman laws, and your stupid protective streak, and your stupid sourpuss face.”

Even as she says it, he’s wearing his signature stony expression. She feels a swell of affection.

“I love these,” she runs a thumb across the stripe of freckles on his nose, watching as his eyes flutter shut. “I love your whiskey sours.” Eyes still closed, he grins at that. “I love you.”

He opens his eyes, gazing up at her with an intensity that takes her breath away.

“Do you remember the day we met?” He asks quietly. She frowns.

“Of course. It was like five months ago.” Puzzled, she smooths a new bandage over his mended stitches, then looks back up at him.

“You thought you were such a mess. You came into the bar in the middle of the day with a red balloon and this thousand-yard stare. And then, like a crazy person, you popped it and scared the shit out of me.”

Her cheeks burn, not one of her finest moments.

“I remember watching you let your guard down drink by drink, and thinking there was just something about you. You were different. Just so…bright. Even as you were falling apart.” It’s his turn to reach out, finger twirling a strand of blonde hair around his finger. It’s a little lighter than it was before. She had to bleach the bloodstains out.

“I was drunk. And sad,” she reminds him. “From what I remember, I didn’t make a great impression.”

He shushes her. She crosses her arms, annoyed.

“And then you told me about your dad, and Wells. And the way you just seemed to immediately know everything about me made a little more sense. You were drunk,” he agrees, “and sad. But I could tell you were strong.”

A little uncomfortable now, under the heat of his gaze and the weight of his words, Clarke looks down, peering back up at him through her eyelashes.

“You were wasted, and it took you like five minutes to figure me out. And then when Octavia was in the accident…I didn’t even know you and you took care of her. For me. And then you took care of the bill, and then when I showed up at your house and _yelled at you for it_ , you gave me coffee and just let me be an asshole. Because you got it. I don’t know how, but you always just get it.”

She stares at him. The things he’s saying…they’re everything she thinks about him. How he takes care of her, and Octavia, and everyone. How much he cares. The way he takes the weight of the world on his shoulders and refuses to tell anyone even if he’s crumbling under it.

“So, yeah. I love you. You make everything bearable.” He finishes, and he’s always loved a good speech, but this one has her blinking tearily.

“You’re such a nerd,” she croaks, a mess of emotion. Giving in to it, she curls up at his side, closing her eyes when he throws an arm around her shoulders and presses a lingering kiss to her forehead.

“Yeah, but you love me.”

She chuckles weakly.

“You’re alright.”

They just lay there for a little while, Bellamy tracing patters on her arms and her soaking in the warmth that he gives off. Eventually, something starts to nag at her.

“So how come you’ve been such an asshole all day?” She asks, and it’s just like her to ruin the moment, but his lips just twist into a wry smile.

“I thought you were taking it back,” he admits. “I thought you’d realized I was…I thought you changed your mind.”

Clarke goes over the past few days in her head, the way he’d recoiled every time she tried to help him, his anger whenever she’d been around to see him struggle. He thought she’d taken his recovery as weakness and wanted an out. She hits him again, lightly this time.

“Hey.” He grunts, glaring down at her.

“You idiot.” It comes out a lot less affectionately than before. “You really thought I’d stop loving you just because you got shot?”

“You have baggage,” he says softly, “around that kind of thing.”

That’s true.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she nestles in closer to him, breathing his scent. These days it’s slightly tainted with that hospital smell that seems to latch onto everything, but there’s enough of Bellamy there to satisfy her. “If you do that again I will kill you myself.”

“Get shot?”

“Get anything,” she mutters. He sighs, arm tightening around her.

“You know I can’t make that promise. If you, or O,-”

“Bellamy.” She cuts him off. “Just let me have this.”

“Yes ma’am.” He nods against the top of her head. “I’ll do my best to not get anything.”

This time when she falls asleep, she dreams about living, about Bellamy.

.-.-.-.-.

“You don’t have to help me. You’re still healing, I can get Monty and Jasper to-”

“Shut it, Princess. I want to help.” He pushes past her into her apartment, a stack of flattened, empty boxes in his hands.

There’s not that much left to do, Clarke has already packed most of her things while he was in the hospital. The truth is, the apartment never felt the same after that night. She knows she can repaint the bathroom, have it re-tiled, even changed the countertops if she wants. But it doesn’t matter. The place is just…tainted.  She follows Bellamy inside, and he blinks at the empty space.

“So you’re…already done?” He asks, baffled.

“I got all the heavy lifting out of the way before you were discharged.” She says, flashing him a grin. “I know how you are, Bellamy Blake.”

And she does. Ever since she mentioned getting a new apartment, he’s been a fountain of opinions, finding listings and calling references and vetoing almost every place she’d found. It didn’t take long for him to cross the line between protective and overbearing, and the following argument had lead to Jackson coming all the way down from the ICU to tell them off for waking up half the floor. Bellamy’s been itching to help with the whole process, frustrated when she refused to let him out of the hospital to help move all her furniture. She predicted weeks ago that he’d want to come straight here the second he was discharged. And so naturally she arranged to have the place cleaned out by then.

She’s his doctor after all. And apparently the only way to keep him from overexerting himself is through stealth and manipulation. Luckily Clarke is very good at both of those things, when she wants to be. It’s a small perk of growing up in the throes of American politics.

“Is there anything left?” He asks, pulling her out of her thoughts. She nods.

“There are still some towels, and linens and stuff.”

“Linens.” He repeats. She giggles at the bemused look on his face.

“You wanted to help,” she reminds him. With a long-suffering sigh, he heads down the hallway. Too late, Clarke realizes where he’s going. “Bellamy, wait, no-”

But he’s already taken a left into the bathroom, and stopped sharply in the doorway. Clarke is there in a heartbeat, tugging at his arm.

“Come on, the towels are in the hall closet-”

But he shakes her off, staring blankly at the room in front of him. It’s a bad horror movie, the stark white against stripes of red that didn’t come out, even after a mixture of bleach and tears and scrubbing until her fingers bled, leaving fresh smears of blood among the old.

She slides her hand into his, squeezing until their knuckles turn white.

“Bellamy.” She tugs on his arm, and he finally moves, stumbling back into the hallway looking dazed. Her hand flies up to his face, pressing against his cheek. “Are you alright?”

He nods.

“I…I guess I don’t remember as much of that as I thought.”

She bites her lip, guiding him to one of the already packed boxes and sitting him down on top of it.

“That’s probably because you were in shock.”

“Jackson liked to say that it was a miracle I was alive. I just assumed he was giving me a hard time. I…never really thought about it.”

Clarke can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes. He frowns up at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She sits down on another box, next to him. “It’s just that I think about it all the time.” She drops her head onto his shoulder.

“I can’t believe you’ve been using that bathroom for four weeks.” He mutters, arm sliding around her and squeezing.

“I’ve been showering at the hospital,” she admits. “I don’t-I never really go in there. I have to paint it before I officially move out, but…I’ve been avoiding it, I guess.”

“We’ll hire painters,” he says firmly, and for the first time since the shooting, Clarke remembers that this is what it feels like to have someone to take care of you.

 _You make everything bearable_.

And he does.

.-.-.-.-.

“Babe, pass me a spatula.”

Clarke glances at the mess of half unpacked boxes in front of her, hands on her hips.

“Um,” she says.

“Clarke,” there’s a new urgency in Bellamy’s voice. “I’m serious, this is burning.”

She rummages haphazardly through the closest box, neatly labeled _Kitchen,_ but all she comes up with is a colander and two Costco sized tins of powdered iced tea. She moved in almost a month ago, but unpacking is apparently made difficult by the schedule of a trauma surgeon. She’s been spending most of her time at Bellamy’s anyways. But he’d finally put his foot down this morning, telling her it was time to unpack and actually move in. So he’d spent the day doing the first proper grocery shop and stocking the fridge, and Clarke had come home to find absolutely nothing unpacked and a pot of pasta bubbling on the stove.

“I can’t find it,” she tells him, moving on to a new box, optimistically marked _Utensils_. It’s full of Blu-Rays, and one pair of socks.

“Jesus,” he mutters, “this is the last time Monty and Jasper are ever allowed to help anyone move.”

Snorting, she hums her agreement.

“Just use a fork or something,” she calls over her shoulder, stomach grumbling at the thought of the spaghetti she’s been smelling for the past half an hour being ruined. Bellamy huffs irritably.

“Do you _have_ forks?”

She points to a drawer, from which he then retrieves a bag of plastic forks. He looks genuinely offended.

Suddenly, Clarke spots the red rubber end sticking out of a box a few feet away. She climbs over several others to get there, then holds the spatula triumphantly over her head. Curious, she glances down at the word written on the flap of brown cardboard. _Upholstery_.

“I’m starting to think they forgot to label these while they were packing,” Clarke muses, clambering back over toward the oven, and her boyfriend. “And then just wrote random words on the boxes after they’d already been taped up.”

She passes off the spatula with a winning smile, and he shakes his head, brushing his lips across hers in a brief kiss. Like almost nothing else in their relationship, these familiar touches come easy.

“Or they were just completely baked,” he suggests. Clarke ponders that, and finds it has an undeniable ring of truth. Then she notices a black stain on his t-shirt.

“What’s that?”

“What?” He glances down. “Oh. Sink issues. The garburator backed up and made a mess.”

She frowns.

“Already? I’ve hardly used it.”

He shakes his head.

“No, mine. I swear, the plumbing in my building gets worse every winter. I’ve only had hot water like three days in the past week.”

This, Clarke knows. She’d been unpleasantly surprised when she’d turned on the shower one morning to be doused in icy water. It might have woken her up, but its not an experience she’s anxious to repeat.

“Hmm,” she says, stealing a noodle from the pot. “You know, it occurs to me that your lease is up in a month.” She’d had to break her own in order to move out early, but her old landlord had been surprisingly understanding.

“You think I should get a new place, too?” He muses, not looking up from the pot he’s currently stirring. “Yeah, I thought about that, it-”

“Actually, I was thinking you could just move in here.”

Bellamy drops the spoon, swiveling to gape at her, and it disappears slowly, sinking into the red sauce.

“You…want me to move in with you?” He asks, just to clarify. Tentatively, she nods.

“I know it’s fast, like outrageously fast, and it’s fine if you don’t want to, but it’s close to your work, and no offense but your place sucks, and-”

“Okay.”

She blinks at him.

“Okay?”

And then her back is against the counter, Bellamy’s mouth hungry against hers. He lifts her onto the countertop, and she wraps her legs around him, relief mixing with bliss as his hand slides down her waist, settling on her hip. He pulls back to nip at her neck, and she lets her head fall back, beaming.

“I would love,” Bellamy tells her, in between biting gently at the skin beneath her ear, “to move in with you. In case that wasn’t clear.”

“My mom is going to flip out. So will everybody else,” she reminds him. He stops, leaning back.

“Do you care?”

She shakes her head, hand tracing his jawline.

“No. I’m happy.”

At her words, his face lights up, so bright it feels like her heart is swelling.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too.” And she means it more everyday.

Suddenly distracted by the slightly smoky haze in the air, she frowns, wrinkling her nose.

“Bellamy, is something burning?”

They both remember the sauce at the same time, and he leaps over to fish the spoon out of the bottom of the pot, but it’s too late.

They have to get take out, for the third night in a row, but given her lack of dinnerware it’s probably for the best.

                  .-.-.-.-.

Three days later, Clarke finds her dishes buried under a pair of old hiking boots and her dad’s tools, in a box marked _Intimates._

Monty and Jasper are not asked to help when Bellamy moves in.

 

 

 

Fin.


End file.
